


The Measure Of One's Character

by Canondorf



Category: Red Dead Redemption
Genre: Anxiety, Character Death, Complicated Relationships, Enemies to Friends, Eventual Relationships, Eventual Romance, F/M, Family, Family Drama, Getting to Know Each Other, Hopeful Ending, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Mild Sexual Content, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Poor Life Choices, Poverty, Protective Arthur, Protective Siblings, Reader-Insert, Red Dead Redemption 2 Spoilers, Red Dead Redemption Spoilers, Romance, Sensuality, Sexual Tension, Slow Burn, Strangers, Stress Relief, Sweet, Twisted and Fluffy Feelings, Western
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-15
Updated: 2019-08-11
Packaged: 2019-09-18 11:37:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 9
Words: 51,144
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16994274
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Canondorf/pseuds/Canondorf
Summary: "What an awful, distasteful, improper, rotten, pompous-"Groomed from her youth, Sloane Fairfield holds command of her family's homestead. With over a dozen to watch and a business to take care of she hardly has time to breathe much less worry about unexpected occurrences. When her family runs into recent trouble and a group of down on their luck 'undesirables' runs into town,  she deals with difficulties of renewing old family ties and striking new ones.





	1. Inconvenience Is Not Laziness

Abigail was yelling again.

Everyone in the camp awkwardly pretended as if they were still sleeping, shuffling side to side in attempt to get some shut eye and still not miss the embarrassing and down right trashy scene unfold. They could make excuses all they wanted, they were a gaping, loud-mouthed gang of sorry degenerates. Disturbing the peace left and right wherever they went. Not that anybody would change if they could.

Even so, it was still nice to see John get a _severe_ reality check. _Again_. He was a sorry excuse of a father, and an even worse brother to their 'family’ of thieves and liars.

And it's not like he could fight back much. He even tried to point a challenging finger at her but ended up withdrawing in pain. “ _Son of a bitch.”_ John grumbled as Abigail went on her obnoxious rant.

Arthur's shoulders jumped and snorted loudly. _Poor bastard._

Suddenly, Abigail turns her advances towards a member of the audience. “You got somthin’ to add?” She shouted even louder.

 _Shit_.

“Not at all, Mrs. Marston.” he cleared his throat and shifted in his cot to face his back to them, doing his best to hide his amusement behind the blanket.

She huffed, already riled up and not in the mood to be brushed aside as something ridiculous by yet another man.

 “No, no! I would absolutely love to hear you expertise on martial matters. I'm sure you've got loads to share. With all your female expertise.”

Arthur rolled his eyes, staying perfectly still while his amusement slowly brittled. Maybe if he was quiet long enough, he could pass it off as snoring.

“Well?!”

Arthur felt something twinge in his gut unpleasantly. It irked to return the violent verbal thrashing she had gladly bestowed on the rest of the camp many times. He liked to think himself a gentleman when regarding swinging violently towards ladies. It was a cowardly, cockless move for drunk husbands and rapists. Moves that were Beneath him. But Abigail Roberts was anything but a lady. She talked, spit, and even fought dirty like a man. He hadn't done anything but watch her _neurotic_ behavior overpower John's _moronic_ one. But tonight, that rage was vicious, ruthless and coming after everybody that dare cross her.

He was worn out and in no mood to engage but would so if she talked to him like she was twice her age backed with life experience.

He opened his mouth to give a snide remark but John's slightly weaker, raspy voice beat him to it. “Goddammit, Abigail! Leave him be, he didn't even do nothin’!”

“Shut up, John, you spineless jellyfish!”

“Don't you talk to me that way, you heartless, lazy-”

And there they went again, right in the middle of camp. Arthur cracked an eye open and over his shoulder and saw Jack sitting too far behind playing with a small wooden boat. Far past his bedtime. 

Poor fella, probably wishing he was somewhere else sailing on that little thing.

After glancing at the clock on his nightstand and deemed the hour ungodly for having to sit through another moment of this trash, he threw on his over shirt and jacket without his  suspenders and headed for his horse. Trusting that he left his hat on his horse and stormed off. Abigail may have felt impressive with her commanding shrill, however it was anything but. Even for her, it was incredibly cowardly for her to call John out like this. Even if she was right in whatever they were talking about. All he knew if that he didn't get away soon, there'd _be_ a really nasty display, and he was too tired to even begin to deal with it.

“Where you heading?” Dutch's tired voice sprang up as he walked past .

“Town.” Was all he could reply, feeling flames in his feet with every step he took while shrugging on his jacket.

Dutch was like that, always keeping tabs on everyone under his protection. Wanting to know everyone's business. It was understandable but at times it became almost too much to bear. It usually didn't bother him but now he'd rather be smothered with a pillow. 

Just like with any family, he needed a well deserved break.

\----------

_“A lady ought to adopt a modest and measured ga...get?” the little girl looked to her mentor with hopeful eyes._

_“Gait.” The teacher nodded and slid her finger to the next word. “That's okay, Elle, it's an odd word. Keep going, you're doing great.”_

_The child bit her lips, pushing through the pressure to impress. “ -too great hurry i-injure the grace which ought to care-char-”_

_“Characterize.”_

_“Characterize, her.”_

“Excellent, job Eleanor. You'll be reading on your own in no-”

  “Why are you teaching her with that trash?” A smooth voice bellowed through the kitchen. A shorter man with enough charisma to go around. Heavy flour sacks sat uncomfortably in his arms as he strolled in. He impatiently blew a loose curl from his face and gave the older woman an annoyed glare.    

 “Ain't gonna do nothing except teach her how to be an uppity little snot.”

The teacher in question huffed exasperatedly, turning in her chair to accuse him.

 “Well, not everyone can be as easily cultured and well-off as you, Clovis.”

The young man in question dropped the sacks heavily on the counter. “I'm cultured. I can read.” He grumbled, leaning back on the counter and reached in his pocket to grab a worn pack of cigarettes.

The woman scrunched her nose in disgust, moving her attentions back to Eleanor..  “Ingrid is going-”

  “I ain't scared of Ingrid. My ass,” he leaned over and sharply striking the a match expertly off the rubber of his shoe. “Is ripened for the kissin’, miss Milli Fairfield.” he puffed in a deep drag, closing his eyes to the warm feeling spark through his chest. She made a disgusted noise.

 “If you say so.” Millicent tightened her mouth to an angry pout, slamming the etiquette booklet closed and rose from her seat with a tight screech from its legs.

  “Come, Eleanor. Ladies are not to be in the presence of degenerate pub smashing non-gentlemen folk.”

Eleanor happily obliged with taking her older sister's hand, not taking a second glance to Clovis.

He grinned looking their way as they strutted down the hall, gesturing his cigarette towards the ceiling

 “Oh Aye, now. Who doesn't love a good pub smashin’?” He hollard with a mighty chuckle. Smoke billowing through his throat then turned to dispense the flour.

“You best  burn that out right now before Miss Ingrid catches you.”

Clovis’ shoulders jumped, the cigarette dangling from his lips. “ _Jaysus_ , Earnie! 'Bout shat myself!” He slapped a hand to his chest. 

Earnest Fairfield took a seat at the kitchen table, glaring intently on his younger brother. His clothes were just as dusty and smelled stale from a full days work. He crossed his arms, unimpressed by his brother's manner.

  “She works hard keeping this place tidy and smelling nice. It's disrespectful.”

Clovis rolled his eyes, blowing grey smoke his way.

 “Isn't that lovely. I work all day in the fields and come in for a moment's peace with a good friend of mine and you come in here and try to take that away from me?” He rolled his eyes, letting the cherished cigarette stand proudly from his lips and spoke through muffled puffs. “What a cruel act, brother.”

Earnest's jaw tightened, shaking his head.

Clovis laughed, the kitchen reeked of his bad habit. “That's why I love ya’ Earine, ya's old softie.”

“Did you ever head into to town?”

Clovis rose an eyebrow, a confused smile on his face. “For what?”

Earnest's face drained of color, his eyes narrowing.

  “Clovis, you didn't. Don't tell me you didn't go.”

The latter rolled his eyes and groaned. “I won't know what your talking about unless you tell me, daffy!”

“Clovis, you complete incapable ass, you were supposed to go to the bank, remember? It'll be closed all weekend!”

The younger man's impish delight suddenly drained. His cigarette barely hanging on his lack-jawed mouth.

 “Shites, son of a bitch-” He had honestly completely forgot. A shameful blush rolled out on his already ruddy cheeks, looking to the floor in a panic.

 “We work hard for months, and you just- I don't-” Earnest said lowly, his hands folding tightly together, eyes white hot with rage. So angry a blood vessel in his forehead protrudes outward and glared as well. Words left him, his normal, quiet well mannered exterior shattered.

   “Sloane is going to kill you.”

Clovis already rushed down the hall with incredible panicked speed and bounded up the stairs, making a mental list of all he needed. Boots, bag, jacket, receipts, the money itself, a copy of the deed and leager.

   “Clovis.” Earnest called after him in a hushed tone after disposing the cigarette butt. His tall, lanky form taking long strides to slowly chase after his younger brother. Careful not to erupt the rest of the house. He gripped the stair railing as Clovis clumsily rushed back down the stairs, closing up his bag and putting on his hat at the same time.

  “Clovis, You're not gonna make it, it'll lock up by the time you get there. Besides, you know Sloane doesn't want y'all to be out this late and-”

 “Will you _shut_ your gob, Earnest.” He whispered lowly.       

     “What's done, or in my case _not done_ , is done. I got one hour before the bank closes, it takes forty-five minutes to get to Valentine, but if I stop skunkin’ around here with you and leg it to town I can nearly cut that time in half.”

 He hopped down the last of the steps and headed for the back door.

Earnest grabbed his arm and pulled him back roughly, demanding his attention. “Oh, no, boy. You're not going by yourself.”

 “Earnie,” he bit, pushing him back. “You know I can do it in time. Now are you gonna let me go, or let our debts sink deeper into the cracks of this house.”

The third eldest Fairfield sibling hinged his jaw shut tight. Clearly struggling with an answer, supper was gonna be on the table soon and the whole family ate together. And every night the present eldest sibling made it a family standard that they _will_ eat together. Siblings of the Fairfield house and those who remained on the homestead worked and ate together. It wasn't a question or order it was an unspoken commandment.

At one time, Earnest fought her on this and she cooling returned-

“ _Not forsaking the assembling of ourselves together, as is the manner of some; but exhorting one another: and so much the more, as you see the day approaching.”_

Their father would say that whenever they tried to shuck off their chores or excuse their dinner together  as unimportant. It was to make them closer and functional as a family. They never spoke on it again.

He owed her everything but shuddered to think what she'd say about this particular matter.  If she were to find out that he had let him go alone, he'd be in for it.

It's not like both of them could go, the boy needed someone to cover his scrawny hide. But now they were both in too deep.

They couldn't afford another mistake.

“Clovis,” he growled out irritatingly, still debating then sighed and let him go. “ If you're not back by supper, best pray you greet God before Sloane.”

The young man grinned, truly relieved and put his palms together like he was in prayer. “You're beautiful, Earnie.”

Earnest couldn't have pushed his brother out the door more uncaringly if he tried. As much as he wanted his brother to get what was coming to him, he prayed to God himself that the transactions went through and his brother home safely

-=-

_Damn it all._

 Arthur clicked his tongue against his teeth. The last bit of his charcoal smudges right out of his fingers. The doe he had drawn out would have to go without an ear for now until he could get more at the general store in the morning.

 He checked his bag a third time for anything to write or draw with but grunted with his disappointment.

 “Hey, mister,” he leaned toward the bartender, and grabbed his attention. “You wouldn't happen to have something to write with, would you?”

 The bartender, a shaky nervous fellow, seemed caught off guard by the request and quietly reached under the bar and pushed him a freshly sharpened pencil and quickly went back to his calling customers.

Arthur felt the corner of his mouth jump, was he that menacing?

 “Thanks.” He muttered and went back to his book. Picking a fresh page by his half-done drawing of a doe.

_I swallowed my pride and asked Hosea finally about the dreams. It's the same over and over every night now_

_An oddly colored doe stares at me. Her eyes are blinding, ears focused towards me. I think she's about to move to me any second. I reach out my hand to beckon her closer. But I don't need meat or hide so why am I drawn to her? My hand trembles as I get closer, I feel her breath cover my fingers. My mouth goes dry yet I can find no words to convey. How do tell something with such delicate fragility that you mean it no harm? I can't even figure my intention once I catch her. Now I feel so maddened to think I'm not dreaming, that the doe is physical and she's trying to tell something I need to know._

_But every time I get close enough to see myself in the reflection if her eyes, she freezes and bounds away at an instant._

_Then I wake up_ . _Just as confused as the night before. Hosea said it could be many things, I probably upset a lady friend. Or I crossed a friend, or I had grilled squirrel too late at night. Maybe the deer was me and my fleeting humanity or some bullshit like that._

 He snorted at the last like he did to Hosea.

  _Maybe, just maybe, there is some higher power reckoning over my head. A bad omen of sorts, though I always interpret  the worst out of things it seems. Some cosmic warning for me to be careful of...something. I doubt God would ever stoop as low as to help my lot._

He sighs and finally decides to order a drink.

_-=-_

After his first stroke, Walter had recovered almost as easily as his body failed the next. He only slurred his words and tired more easily. He could still work with the others and direct his land accordingly.  When the second one came and left, his hands and feet were shaky and he started to forget things more easily. His son in law had taken over then, counting the numbers and making sure the whole place didn't burn to the ground. He did it too, protected the homestead and his large family to boot. Seemed fitting at the time since the little ones were too young to work.

But when the third hit, now _that_ one did him. Took his legs and mind in some aspect or another. Started wearing a patch in order to cover his drooping left eye. It didn't bother him much, gave him good fuel to his stories for the little ones. He could still think and feed himself but he was in no condition to work, his hands shook, tongue falling slack at times. Mixing up each grandchild and drifting off in the past when looking at the two oldest. His heart broke each time he looked at the second. They'd be out in the field shucking peas or peeling potatoes and he'd look in minor surprise.

“ _Callie, sweetheart_.”

Each time she looked around it would be the ghost of his daughter, and each time he eventually recognized his granddaughter, his heart broke a little more. Then he'd play it off like a joke.

 “ _Oh, just keepin’ you on your toes, hun_ . _Tis’ but a jest_.” Like nothing happened, he'd continue the work his hands at the moment. Going on about what his lady friend Agnes said at their last book club meeting. What a cruel joke to play, anyhow.

He looked on his eldest granddaughter now all hunched over her workspace, a hand in her wildly Irish cream curls that reminded him of home, and the other furiously scrubbing away numbers, letters, and different bills. Everything in order, categorized alphabetically, then in a separate section with just estate revenue and specific spaces which to distribute it all. Nothing could be even a hair out of place or she would do it all over again. She oversaw wages given to their field hands, the small allowance given to the Fairfield bunch that worked with them and just a little for those who worked in the house. Though she couldn't afford to give them much, they always had food, clothes on their back, and a little extra to stick back for themselves. Everyone pitched in, worked and bled for the homestead. Why shouldn't they be rewarded?

During these bookkeeping sessions, Walter sometimes felt useless, yet she always requested him there. Reading over the ledger was one of the first things she was in charge of. By the time she was just a tiny thing barely reaching his hip, she could read the thing back and forth and give her know-it-all input with cool calculation. Walter had instilled that spirit in her then and she insisted on his input and presence today. She didn't need him, she _wanted_ him there.

 Pride grew larger in Walter's chest so much so that he was tempted to shout  and rejoice in song. To know that he was never unwanted by any of his grandchildren and still respected. If all he could do was support her from the sidelines and cheer her on, then by God he would do his part.

  “Nan, honey. Why dontcha’ have a rest, eh? You been stuffin’ your nose so close to that book, ya’ might get a papercut.” He patted the seat next to his wheelchair by the window.

Sloane tapped her pencil in a quick rhythm, counting how many eggs they should have this coming week and shifted to their count of cattle for what felt like the hundredth time. Cooking them could be an option but how could they possibly get enough to feed the whole farm? She quickly scratched that idea on account of their needed profit.

  She could sell some this year, but what if nobody wanted a skinny cow? That was likely enough, not to mention the feed its costing to keep many of them fed but not enough. Four, maybe? _Sell four and fatten the rest for healthier stock. Healthier stock, better milk, better cheese and butter, better quality soap- but watch the quantity and speed take a hit. This would be proper if not for the-_

 Her lips moved with her concentration, grey eyes darting between each letter and number. She hated and admired her obsession. It was a challenge, a puzzle that needed solving. Pieces of a living chessboard that needed protecting at all costs.

A soft weight fell on her shoulder, launching her from her thoughts.

 “Sloane, love,” Walter’s voice cut into her calculations.

She turned to him quizzically. “I’m sorry, sir. Was there something you wanted to add or fix?”

Walter shook his head with a wrinkled grin, gently patting her back.

 “I doubt, there would be anything for me to add, darlin’. You’re gonna think yourself into an early grave.” He wagged his finger at her when she chuckled. “Mark me, nan. You’re gonna start aging faster, just look at me.”

Sloane gave him a sideways smirk. “Well, I’m sorry they tried to preserve as much as they could, Pop. You being buried with the rest of the prehistoric's and all made it pretty difficult.”

Walter gasped and shook his fist.

   “Oh, aye!” He cried when she rose from her chair and stretched to avoid his jabs. “I oughta give a good lick for that wicked snark of yours little missy! Lord, knows I didn't teach ye’ them awful manners, I _didn't_!”  

 “Oh, please, pa,” She laughed even harder reaching over to gather the messy papers and shut up the books for the night. He wasn’t wrong, it’s a good few hours she spent tonight to makeup for lost work these past couple of nights. It needed to be updated every night, but some days were just harder than others to carefully crunch all the numbers.

 “You haven’t whooped me in years. Or ever that I can recall. You were the one standing up for me when dad went for his belt.”   

“Maybe that was my mistake, but it’s never too late _un-spare_ the rod, nan. I may have trouble gettin’ _this_ belt off without me bits hangin’ out but I’m willing to take the risk!”

She tried her hardest not to smile while she slid her books into place at her desk.

   “I’ll try to kindly refrain my dastardly manner of addressing my elders, sir.”

 “Mm.” He grunted in reply, fighting off his own smirk and gestured for her to close the window behind them. Which she gladly followed. “Oh, you’ll try, little missy. You may have not gotten me red hair, but that Fairfield blood still pumps through ya’ like a mighty iron. ”

The smile she carried was almost too warm for her character. Fairfield. A genuine daughter to the Fairfield clan. From time to time her mother would tell her stories of the homeland before sailing to America. They were a hardworking people. Honest and true to their word. She often dreamed of sailing there to see the land of ‘nothin but green’. That's always what her mother would say.

“ _A lush land with nothing but green, Nan_ ,”

Everytime she was about to here a story it always started that way. Almost like a fairytale by the way she described it. Rain scented air, the clouds rolling over the mountains,a fresh dew hydrating the flowers and grass beneath. Creeks flowing around their farm that carried into a rushing water into the woods. She could sometimes feel the cool grass beneath her feet whenever she listened to those stories.

  The homestead land had always held more of a orange hue by the looks of their endless wheat fields. Dry and lacking color.

Walter shook her again by the arm. “Sloane, darlin’. Ingrid just rang for supper. Best get a move on if we’re gonna get the goods first.”

Sloane sighed and made her way behind him to direct his wheelchair out of the study.

“You know we always get scraps anyways, pop.”

 

He shook his head. “Oh, aye. You keep sparin’ that rod, missy, and before long we’ll get less than scraps.”

-’-’-’-’-’-’-’-’-

_C'mon._

Clovis picked up his speed from his horse, the  town's within sight just over the hill. He slapped his reins and finally breathed when he saw the bank still had its lights on inside.

He shoved through groups of people, and sloppily hitched his horse. Out of breath as he hopped off his mare. To his horror the bank manager was opening his doors with keys jostling around in his hand.

“No, no, no!” he hollard with a shrill desperation and rushed to grab his pack and bounded up the steps. “Please, sir have to pay of some off of my family's mortgage and-”

“Sorry, son. You'll have to come Monday, I've already closed the books and excused my security.” He said simply, not giving him a second glance. “I've gotta a family too.”

Clovis could feel his hands shaking.   “Listen sir, you don't understand, if it's late again our interest will skyrocket to high heaven and we need that land sir and-and,” he could tell the banker was more annoyed than convinced and slowly saw his downfall commence.

    “Ah, uh, look,” he quickly shuffled around his back pockets, pulling out a wadded set of bills in a money clip.  “I've got fourteen dollars. I've been saving for a rainy day, you could use it to buy your wife somthin’ pretty, I'm sure!” He nudged it towards the nicer dressed man. It wasn't anything special, his family probably bought their lunch with this kind of money.

 

Then Clovis saw the thing he hated most, _pity_ on the fancy man's face. He took one look at Clovis’ clothes and demeanor and narrowed his eyes.  Not the compassionate pity, but the kind that made one feel low and unworthy. Poor.

 Clovis swallowed and narrowed his brow. Sticking his offering out closer to the man. “Please.”

The banker sighed and unlocked his doors again.

  “Keep your money, Mr. Fairfield. Give me a moment to get everything ready and call back the guard posted..” he fled inside with an annoyed mirth, grumbling the whole way.

Bile rose up in Clovis’ throat as he shamefully put his ‘savings’ back in his bag. A couple of stragglers had started to spectate and glower at the boy. Suddenly, feeling so small. _One of them Fairfield boys. Poor, dirty and desperate as they always have been. Always making a public special of themselves._ He felt his blood boil at the sideshow they stared at. He could practically hear their snide thoughts.

But he Squared his shoulders and straightened his back with a confident smile.    “Oh, you're a right generous fellow, sir. Taking the time to manage my tardiness. Warm's an old  crooks heart, it does.”

The banker just shook his head with a grunt and waved him inside.

Clovis felt more of his heart tighten with a jaded snare as he entered the bank.

-=-

Arthur ordered another whisky to stale his nerves. Giving his eyes a break and taking in the bar. Not many now, but  soon as the working girls took their stations it would be a mess of people. He looked to the clock on the wall, nearly seven thirty.

Still too early to head on up to camp, back to bed but his body yearned and shivered at the mere thought of a warm blanket and a soft bed.

He thought about renting a room but he was also in no mood to hear the screams of “passion” erupting through the walls.

  “Ah, there goes one of them Fairfield boys bothering someone else with his tardiness.”

Arthur followed their looks lazily, still slightly slouched over the counter and his head held low in benign interest.

   “That's not just one of them, that's the gang-bastard son that Irishmen took in.”

  “You don't mean-”

Arthur did have to hear the rest to know who they were talking about. He fully turned himself towards their conversation, not caring any less if he was caught eavesdropping.

“O'Driscoll's.”

A woman accompanying the two gasped in flirtatious surprise.

    “You're pulling our legs!”

 “Not in the slightest, look there's some now.”

 Fire burned in tune with the alcohol in his veins as he looked to the window. There they were, their signature hats and colors flying about as if they owned the place. They stared at said 'Fairfield’ boy in an obnoxiously loud manner as he entered the bank after closing hours. Their insults never failed to slip into new and inventive ways.

Arthur smugly turned back to the bar and glared down at his drink. Dutch had said to keep a low profile, to not get involved needlessly. It was nonsensical, a danger to the gang and himself. There were easily five or six members outside making a spectacle of themselves. He had no reason to get involved.

Even as the boy left the bank a half hour later and quickly got on his horse and fled. No matter that he was easily a much skinnier fellow with no chance being outnumbered. He swore he wouldn't get involved.

Not even when the O'Driscoll's mounted their own horses and took off after the boy. He made a promise after all.

 

…

 

 “ _Goddammit_.”

He downed the rest of his whiskey and growled as he grabbed his coat and hat. Slapping some change on the counter and left to mount his own horse

-=-

  “Alright, you lot! Single file if you please! Don't all pile in at once ye’ mangies! We can't start without the masters of the house!”

 Ingrid's voice rang louder than any dinner bell. Signaling the whole house washing up that they needed to hurry and seat themselves before the house heads rolled in.

 “All ye’ sit in your right spots, now!”

“Awe, potato soup again?” the retort was met with a loud smack to the back of the head as quick as the remark came.  

  “Jesus, Ingrid! Was only teasin’.” The younger man replied, rubbing the newly formed knot on the back of his head.

 “I'd keep a civil tongue if I was you, Oliver Fairfield. You ought to keep your attitude checked in the presence of ladies.” She waggled a wooden spoon at him, unafraid to use it twice.

  Oliver snorted. “What ladies? All I see is a bunch of smart-mouthed farm hens!” He took a second glance to the small feminine arm that he held to keep her attention. She always had trouble in big groups. He nods. “In opposed to Miss Dotty, here ,that is.”

Dorothy just looked quizzically at her brother, who made a 'nevermind’ wave of his hand, signaling her to take her seat in between her sisters.

 “I am disturbed by your lack of manners, Oliver.” A quieter, lower voice came to sit at the opposite end of the table. Amos, one of the younger siblings, perched his eyes upward in a scowl at his brother.

  “No wonder you're unable to ensure a proper wife.”

“Hey! I'll have you know I'm a proper gentlemen in the outside world. I's just tryin’ to get a rise out out of Miss ingrid, here..”

  He made sure to use sign language this time to back his words for Dorothy's benefit. It always helped him memorize the language since he struggled with it. Even the youngest Fairfield boy could sign most words better than him. And he was five!

   He leans back, tipping the chair legs,  before Amos could respond. His smirk wild on his dirty face and calls back to the kitchens.

  “Ain't that right, Miss Igrid?”

 The housekeeper merely scoffed, rushing out with Millicent in tow to help her set out the spread of bread and cheese.  The younger Fairfield nudged Oliver roughly out of the way as she set the platter down. She signed with her tiny hands as well.

  “Oh, please. The only females willing to put up with your stink is the cattle. Even then, it's a challenge for the poor things.”

 Sloane smirked from the back doorway, having a clear view of the family gathering as the two erupted in a silly argument while the rest of the table cackled loudly.  Walter had stewed up a conversation with Miss Ingrid in their Old Irish language while she hurried about like the plump mother hen she was. Grabbing the giant pot in the middle of the stove and began filling bowls with a chunky soup. She offered her help, but Ingrid stoutly refused and resumed her work. Instructing that Sloane do what she did every night before supper, to wheel Walter in at his place at the head of the table. Right next to the eldest daughter. Sloane sighed and nodded, watched her sibling gather around the table to seat themselves first. It was crowded to say the least.

All in all, there were seventeen. Seventeen in addition to herself, Miss Ingrid and the three field hands that stayed on the property. They might as well been apart of the family and were treated as such.

She watched as Millicent helped the two youngest to their seats beside her. Connor and Eleanor. Both close in age and very young but old enough to understand their place in the house. Connor hardly spoke a word half the time, taking a shining to Sloane and she to him ever since he was born. Every trip to town, and wagon ride, Sloane made it tradition to tow along little Connor per his request. Not even old enough to hold a gun, or reached her waist in height but he held himself like a man. Eleanor was only a year older than him, and boy did she ever think so. Bossy, quick with her wit, and hot tempered like their mother. She stuck by to Millicent most of the time. Bettering her education even started writing very fluently.

  That would make three with Millicent.

 Sloane moved her eyes over to a couple of her younger brothers in the family with her second youngest middle sister in the middle of them. Amos, Dorothy, and Oliver.

 It was safe to say Amos and Oliver got along like snake oil and the consumer, but all the same, either one would stick out their neck for the other in a heartbeat. She'd never forget when they were much younger than they were now, coming home late at night with bloody noses and black eyes. Sloane was furious, thinking they had gotten into a scrap with each other again and them down for a good talking to. She went on to scold them and threatened to tear their hides. Sloane was scared more than anything when she found out the truth from Earnest, who brought them home. Her tone of voice never reached such volume before. Earnest had sat back at the corner of the room, his arms crossed and anger silent. He let Sloane go off.

 “ _Did you ever think!? Are you that stupid to pick a fight with men much older and stronger!? You best thank your lucky stars they didn't put a bullet in you sorry sacks of idiocy!”_

In all her yelling, Oliver had slammed his feet to the floor and yelled right back.

  “ _We had to fight them, Nan! They called him a dirty, filthy injun_!”

 Tears were in his eyes in all of his rage. Amos had sunk lower into the seat, his face doused in shame. After that, they had stuck together. Still bickering as if they were blood brothers, but hardly separated as if they were really blood-related family.

Sloane had gone silent then as she was now. Watching the two carry on and interact with the other. Amos was a well tempered fellow. Never picked at anyone's open wounds. He was distant but obedient. He followed his tasks quicker than anyone on the homestead, no matter how much work you gave him. It was a wonder he got them done with Oli bothering him all the time.

 And then there was Dorothy in the middle of the two men. Small, sweet, meek, and very clearly the favorite of the household. She had given mother the most trouble during pregnancy, even after Jane. Like Connor, she wouldn't speak for a long while, and just watched blankly as the world passed her by. She would ignore directions, bump into walls and tables.

 Once when she was out playing with her older sisters a wild horse their workers were breaking, kicked its way out of . her sisters were nearly at the front porch when they heard the call. Dotty still played happily in the grass with her dolls, oblivious to those who desperately called her. She had her back turned and had her attention on her dolls as the horse broke out of the gate and charged right in her direction. Sloane had never seen her mother so scared.

Luckily, their head field manager Boone had reacted last second and shot the horse straight through the skull in a panic while her older siblings roughly pulled her out of the way of the dropping horse. Boone was furious, lost in all his anger and fear a young girl nearly had died and he had lost a prize breed.

“ _What are ya!? Stupid?! Fuckin’ deaf!_?”

Two days later, the doctor had told Sloane that Dorothy had partially no hearing and would lose it all by the time she was twenty. Boone cried. A big, burly man reduced to tears within seconds. To this day, believing his harsh word put a curse on the young girl. Even though all that was behind them now, he still looked at Dorothy with sad eyes time and again.

 Speaking of the Devil himself, Boone and his workers came filing in at the last minute, interrupting Sloane's head count.

His loud boisterous laugh filled the air almost at an instant, announcing their presence and putting smiles on everyone's faces.

Boone, Barak, and Russel.

Boone had been in business with Walter from the beginning. He had just been let go from his previous job, and had met Walter in a bare when he first came to America. He was full of promise, had a young daughter to support and the American dream bustling through his veins. He was a friendly sort and did business well, almost never had a complaint and worked hard to get the farm up and running.

His mate Barak was also a quiet sort, kept to himself when father first hired him on and spoke very little. Very private about his own life. That was until Boone and Russel got a hold of him.

He locked eyes with Sloane and shared a smile and a quiet nod before taking a seat with the others. Russel was his own kind of breed, snarky and smart mouthed, probably where Clovis got his attitude from.

 

She pinched her brows together in confusion, counting again as everyone was seated. Penny was staying with the pastor's family, her best friend's from school were also the staying there. Brother Fletcher was a long time trusted friend and understood her worry. He lived closer to town too so if anything should happen, the Sheriff and his deputies were close by. That marks off one.

  Earnest said he was finishing his bath upstairs, and coming down in a moment's time that counts two missing.

 Her other sister Virginia was off with her doctor friends to Blackwater. Sloane tried not to have her go, stating several times how dangerous it was to be traveling with all those strangers. But the Doctor she accompanied was older, wiser and promised to pay triple her salary and Sloane simply couldn't keep her from going. It still made her stomach clench at the thought of her alone. This was Virginia's dream, and she always helped when the family was down and out of luck.

 

That makes three missing so far. She felt her arms grow stiff at her sides. Her chest tightened. Anxiety gnawing at her mind. Empty chairs stares right back at her menacingly. It was an unspoken rule they eat together. Always has been. So when fully allowed their absence, fear clung and melted into her skin so desperately it was difficult to breathe.  

 

 “Ingrid,”

 

The mother hen pauses, holding two bowls on each arm filled with soup.

 “Yes, dear?”

 

 “Did you see anyone leave the house when you rang everyone in for supper?”

 

She took a second to think while adjusting the heavy bowls.

“Not that I know of, Miss. Although I saw Earnest pacing around the stables as I was walking back up the porch. He looked troubled.” She shrugged, resuming her task.

 “But you know Earnie, poor boy always looks troubled.”

 

Sloane leaned back on the doorframe, counting once more as Ingrid passed the food around. Something was off. Something ripped and twisted her insides into unwanted burning knots.

 

“Awe, damn it, potato soup again?”

 

 Ingrid smacks the back of Russel's skull after settling his portion down, his head snapping forward in pain.

  “I'd keep a civil tongue in front of your employers and their children if I were you, Mr. Cunningham. Miss Fairfield might have the sense to finally let you go.”

Boone snickered, slapping his mate Russel's back before he could say something meaner.

 “Of course, Miss Ingrid. These young people don't understand the privilege of good food and hospitality.”

 Now there were ten seated at her table. Including herself, Ingrid, and Pa, that would make thirteen. Her hands became tight fists in her crossed arms. Earnest was upstairs, Virginia in Blackwater, Penny at the Fletcher's, and-

Her eyes widened just slightly as the family bursted into a great guffaw as Boone finished he second comedic fishing story. Even Dorothy's eyes misted in her laughter.

Footsteps slowly marched down the stairs, Earnest coming from the hallway with his wet dark hair still tangled around his face. The family welcomed him happily and he shyly waved in return as he took a seat.

Sloane sharpened her eyes. He was nervous. Averting her eye contact at all costs and extra quiet an inactive with the others. Her jaw tightened and kept a red-hot glare his way.

  
He was hiding something. And whatever that was, in ended with _Clovis_ not being seated at the dinner table.


	2. Wether Or Not Family Law Is Abided

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Anybody who has survived his childhood has enough information about life to last him the rest of his days."  
> -Flannery O'Connor

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy New Year everyone! Lets kick off this year into a running start! Headfirst into the unknown! Now sit back, relax and enjoy the latest update!

   Clovis patted his horse's head and spoke with low, whispering tones. She was getting tired and fast, not used to long distance at such speed as this. He was over an hour late getting home, dinner had of course already started at this point. He didn’t dare look at the clock before leaving as fast as his feet could take him.

  Her hooves kicked up dirt, her muscles contracted and were starting to ridge in place. It was a wonder she didn’t buck him off now. Maybe it was a struck of luck or an act of the almighty himself. Hopefully keeping a watchful eye as he flitted off to be rewarded with a rightful punishment. What could he say to her? How much he screwed up and then beg on his hands and knees for her forgiveness? He already had broken three sacred household rules and had broken them before. Not to mention he could've been the reason they went bankrupt if that fancy-man had not let him in to file away a payment. As head of the household, Sloane had every right to banish him if she willed it. After all the stunts he's pulled in the past, she didn't blame him. 

   The very thought turned his gut as he ducked a branch and pulled on the reins to give her a light gallop. He was still twenty minutes away and scared out of his wit. What would only be worse than dismissing him would be  _ keeping _ him. Her punishments had been harsh in the past for the most minor of things. Shucking off chores, not escorting each other to town, meeting a lady friend without a chaperone. He even got smacked around for not saying his 'please and thank you's’ at the table! 

  Sure she wasn't cruel as he made her out to be, but she sure as hell wouldn't be so long suffering a fourth time.

  His back suddenly tensed at the sound of groups of pounding horses hooves behind him. It spooked him more than anything. Either lawmen or bandits. And no way the sheriff's office was  _ that _ active this time of night outside city limits. Clovis slapped the reins on his horse to push on even though she was struggling. He instinctively reached for his side, grabbing his - 

_ Jesus, fuckin’ Jehosphat!  _

  He could see his weapon now. Neatly sitting on his dresser at the house. Not placed in the cabinet where Ingrid had told him to put it so he wouldn't forget or in case were to get a hold of by the children.

   He kneed his horse a bit harder and headed for the trees and off the pathway. It was dark and his horse was a nice dark mahogany that blended well with the night. The only problem was his own red hair upon his head. Anyone could spot that curly mess, rain or shine. He tried to relax best he could, besides maybe they were just passing by and in a hurry. He wasn't in any immediate danger as far as he could gather

His mouth tightened, highly doubting his chances.

  A shot ringing out in the air suddenly made him duck his upper body forward and pull his bag close. He whipped his head around, unable to get a better look at his supposed assailants. Feeling completely stupid for believing he had a chance to get out of this cleanly.

 “Hey! We know it's you Fairfield! Why don't you pull on over and we'll discuss some matters with ye’. We just just want to talk!” 

Two more shots zipped through, sounding as if they were right behind his ear. Warning him to turn around. 

 Clovis’ temper flushed right across his pale, freckle ridden cheeks. Without thinking, he yelled right back to them, turning off course and even further away from his house. He'd die before any thieving trash got to his family again. 

  “ _Why don't_ **_ya’_** lads take your business elsewhere, gobshites! I ain't got nothin’ on me, if money's what your after!” 

   They only laughed at him, their voices closer by the second. Bullets started buzzing past him. Causing a stir and a jolt from his horse. 

  Clovis’ hands shook, trying not to drop the reins. Keeping his eyes straight on where he was going, he pressed on the growing distance between the two. Even if he hadn't a prayer, he would still try and hopefully run into an holy interference to guide him out of the grave mess he was in.

-=-

  Everyone seated, the room quiet, the eldest Fairfield daughter wheeled in the former leader of the house. A moment of silence for respect, to direct all the attention on him. Delighted grandfather and the most loved man in the house if not in their small little farming community. 

  Sloane took a seat after Walter was placed in his spot, he bowed his head and closed his hands together. Everyone mirrored his pose wordlessly. Even Russel, who claimed never to be a God-fearing man lowered his head in respect. Sloane did as well but eyed everyone else before she bowed. 

  Walter's sweet, smooth voice walked through the walls of the house. It felt protected with his blessing. Its gritted smoky dialect comforted each individual in a different degree, yet all of his love poured in was the same. He  _ loved _ without remorse and it was said every night in his prayer. 

  “ _ God bless the corners of this house _ __  
_ And be the lintel blessed. _ __  
_ Bless the hearth, the table too _ _  
_ __ And bless each place of rest.”

  Though Sloane respected means of tradition, she couldn't help the paranoid way her eyes opened and flew up to her younger brother at the opposite end of the table by Boone and Barak. As if he would fly off at any moment without being questioned. She fumed and felt her hands tighten together so hard her knuckles burned. 

  He sat, while his brother was nowhere to be found. Oh, yes he was shy, but not at much as he let people on. He was smart, coy and had a leading presence if he absolutely needed to. Though he could never hide from her if something was wrong, it didn't stop him from trying from every once in a while. Clovis could be dying in a ditch somewhere and they probably would never find his body if it turned out to be true. It was so dark outside now, it inked through the windows of their house. Sure they had plenty of candles out to fully light the place and it wasn't out of the ordinary of it to get dark this late but that didn't dull her nerves in the slightest. Sloane's rage thickened, the only thing holding her back was her grandfather's peaceful prayer. 

 “ _ Bless each door that opens wide _ __  
_ To stranger, kith and kin; _ __  
_ Bless each shining window-pane _ _  
_ __ That lets the sunshine in .”

  Earnest felt her eyes burning guilty screws through his bowed skull. From the moment he walked down those stairs he knew. He tried to buy some time taking a bath. Getting up every five minutes to check the top window if Clovis was riding in or hitching his horse. What was he doing? He should've been back by now. Unless there was problem with the paperwork or the banker needed a bit more convincing. 

_ Or... _

  His knee bounced like rabbits hightailing away from a hunter. A nervous wreck. He wanted to stare right back at her, to be brave and own what he's done. However, the sheer threat in her eyes struck the fear of God in him. She had the most intimidating unspoken advantage with everyone she knew both professionally and personally. There were times where she was to be treated like a lady and time where she expected to be treated like an business owner. 

  She did... _ moderately _ well in separating the two but some days were better than others. If a deal went bad or someone did not hold up their end of a bargain, she'd usually be shut up in her study for hours or take out of frustration in the fields. Very rarely she would snap at her family, but every now and then a poor soul would stumble her way and mess up, then receive the hard end of her verbal rage. Like he stated before, it wasn't always, but even she couldn't keep her cool exterior long. She could pick apart a lion until he apologized to  _ her  _  for growling. 

 “ _ Bless the roof-tree up above _ __  
_ Bless every solid wall. _ __  
_ The peace of Man, the peace of love, _ _  
_ __ The peace of God on all .”

  Walter would finish his prayer, he'd look up to push his spoon to circle the soup around and couple times and eventually, he would have to look up at her. See the anger, the utter disappointment on her prominent face. Earnie was surprised someone hasn't said anything yet about Clovis missing. He felt his heart take a great skip, his palms and neck drenched in sweat. What if something  _ had _ happened to him? Sure, Clovis was strong and could take care of himself but he was still just a man. A boy.  A young foolish boy, who didn't know his own limits wasn't exactly ideal. It's not like he had sent him to his deathbed, it was a simple errand. Nothing to be losing heads over!

 So  _ why  _ did he feel like it was something grave. He had been gone too long now.

Jane appeared in his vision as if it was December first within seconds. Her pale, little hands folded together on a sunken stomach. Eyes emptied of color opened and staring at him. Her golden hair woven into tight braids in a crown around her head so they would never loosen in her rest. 

  He closed his eyes tighter. Shunning the memory and forbidding it to the darkest part of his soul. He didn't need to think of it anymore today. Not tomorrow either. Her memory would only cloud his judgement and stutter his speech. 

 Who was he kidding? He sent his brother, one of his dearest friends out alone in the middle of the night.  It was  _ his  _ fault that his brother could be lying dead in a gutter right now or kidnapped and being tortured. He lightly shook his head again, forbidding any further rediculous thoughts.

  “ _ If not all this, I pray you hold this true _ :

_ Be good to God, your kin, and _

_  May you live as long as you want, _ _  
_ _ And never want as long as you live. _ ”

   “Amen."

  And just like a teacher dismissing his schoolhouse, everyone erupted into their own conversations and dived headfirst into their food. They had eaten potato soup a hundred times Boone went on to tell a long tale about one of his old war buddies getting caught in a bear trap and then an actual grizzly bear came and attacked the both of them. He gestures wildly like it was some big spectacular event, as if the angles themselves were cheering them on. His chapped hands signed wildly  as he spoke, giving added imagery to his scene.

  Sloane kept her hands folded tight, back still straight from the moment she sat down. If the others weren't so preoccupied with their food, they would've seen the heat creep up her neck. The sheer anger that choked the very air around her. It was indescribable.  Guilt, rage, fear, all the things she hated to feel composed into one mess towards her brother. He was suppose to help her protect them, not send them off to God knows where in the middle of the night. He remained with them to help her manage the  _ seventeen _ that stayed on their homestead. Try as she, might she couldn't do it all alone.

  “Ya’ goin’ to eat, Nan?” 

 She looked to Walter beside her, placing a piece of cheese on his plate he was reaching for. Having a hard time releasing her jaw while she spoke. 

 “Yes sir, I was just thinking.” She said, swirling the chalky build up the inside of her bowel. 

A big laugh erupted before she could elaborate, head head snapped back up to Boone who finished his long drawn out story. 

  “Poor boy couldn't walk straight for years after that kind of punishment!” 

   He hands struggled to sign as fast as his speech. The shaky, wheezed way he laughs confuses Dorothy though she smiles just as enthralled as he. Amos kindly translates while the rest are indisposed into hysterics. Kindly, censoring certain gritty details. 

 “You say that,” Connor seriously quips in, his thick brows in a furrowed straight line on his tiny forehead. Clearly confused. 

 “But Billy has three kids. If he lost that part, wouldn't be hard to have a family?” 

   Everyone's expression freezes. The little boy's elder brothers snickered behind their hands. Barak looked the most mortified, lightly elbowing the seat next to him to diffuse the situation. Boone's eyes darted between the head of the table and the little boy.  He shrugged. 

 “Well, boy, he still had his other-” 

   Millicent cleared her throat, clinking her silverware against the bowl. 

 “That is  _ not  _ polite dinner conversation. Let's change the subject.” 

 The older fellow nodded understandably, almost embarrassed by the motherly scold. Connor sat with a curious look on his face until Milli directed him to his dinner. After that guffaw of a story all other conversation seemed dull now. 

  “Uh…” Oliver spoke. “Clovis left the barn door open again.” 

 The vein in Russel's head visibly twitched, swinging his scoff towards Oli. 

 “If I've told that boy once, I've told him a hundred times! The horses get restless and start to jump about so he's gotta make sure the doors are locked. Dumb little- And God knows, ole’ Russel gotta clean up his mess if those things get out again!” 

   “It's supposed to rain late tonight, as well.” Barak spoke up for the first time this evening. 

   “ _ Shit _ .” Russel gurgled behind his drink, and lightly kicked the table beneath. 

   “If that little fu-”

 “Language, Mr. Cunningham!”

   Ingrid shouted from the kitchen. 

Russel rolled his eyes while shoveling in a spoonful of potato. 

 “If that little weasel makes up some cockamamy story to get out of doing work, then he's gotta’ another thing coming.” 

  He nudged Earnest, taking loud slurps of his soup. 

 “Ain't that right Earnie?”

 The man wordlessly smiles, taking tiny little mouse-like sips of his food. Turning it this way and that with his spoon like he already lost his appetite. As if he wasn't skinny enough.

“Speakin’ of work, Miss Fairfield,” Russel reaches over to grab another slice of cheese and plops it down on his plate. 

 “You get that letter from Mr.Gibbens yet?” 

 Sloane switched her gaze, leaning back to try and relax best she could muster. It didn't matter how much she wanted to ring Earnie's neck, there was no need to act so hastily in front of everybody. After all, the full story wasn't there but given his body language, it wouldn't be too long before he talked. She straightened her back once more and regained control.

   “Not yet, I assume it'll be delivered tomorrow. I'm sure we'll be able to move the cattle to his land in a week or so. He's already paid half, so I doubt he'll give you any trouble.” 

 “And the horses?” Barak quietly chipped in. 

 She adjusted her legs and cracked her ankles. Too rigid to be comfortable in her seat. Already she was so sore from the all stress and activity from the day. Everyone got quiet in anticipation. She tightened her mouth, shifting her eyes downward. 

  “He won't trade.” 

 A collective sigh of frustration leaves her audience. The kids too.

  “I tried, ya'll. Gibs wasn't budging his asking price and wouldn't take the extra cattle for them. He wants Clovis’ Horse and I couldn't do that. Harriot is our best mare and perfect for breeding when she comes of age. I did all I could.”

 Walter patted her hand after dabbing his mouth clean of food. 

  “It happens, dearie.” 

“ _ Bullshit! _ ” 

She snapped her eyes over to the left side of the dinner table. Her expression cross at the dramatic exclamation. Some of the family gaped their eyes. Surprised that kind of language was being used towards their sister so direct. Nothing made her sicker than cursing in front of children. Teaches bad habits early on before their time. 

  “Oli,” 

 “Don't  _ 'Oli’ _ me! You had that sale in the bag! What happened when you went to see him? He's sold to us before way cheaper  _ and  _ traded with less!” 

 “We can't control what others decide. Mr. Gibbens has been good to us before and has been bad to us. He is not our sole buyer.” Boone added before Sloane, his elbows now placed on the table and hands folded. Speaking as if it was obvious what the answer was.

 “Don't forget, boy, I was there too. Gibs is a fickle man and this is how things are in the business world. Don't you go jumpin’ all over your sister cause people are people. And  _ people  _ are gonna do whatever they want whenever they want. It ain't the end of the world. We'll find a different buyer, I'm sure. We always do.”

 Sloane felt her chest lighten of burden. Boone may have been a gritty ole’ grouch, but he was on her side most of the time.

  “We don't beg, Oliver.” 

 Oliver relaxed back into his seat, his pinched expression fell slack. 

  “I...you're right, ma'am. I'm sorry, I ain't sore at you. Swear, I just…” he pushed his napkin around his lap uncomfortably. Struggling to regain his composure. 

 “I just wish we weren't so…”

 Sloane's eyes softened. He couldn't say it outloud but she knew what he was getting at. Oliver had worked hard these last few months to get those cattle fat and happy. Reality was cruel to those who worked hard to change it. She knew exactly why he was so upset.

  With their cut in profit, Oliver sought to buy a new three piece suit to take out a nice girl in Strawberry. A lightly used one, as promised by the general store owner, but still nicer than all of his clothes combined. He only mentioned it a few times when drinking with the other men but he was pining for her and wanted to make a good impression. The girl was wealthy from her father's oil rigging company and he most likely a wanted to hide the fact of their... _ reality _ . Not that she agreed that he wanted to dress up to hide his family's true state of living, but she never addressed it. He was just a kid, trying to take out a girl. 

   “I know. I promise, we'll find someone.” 

 It was quiet for a second. Oliver staring angrily at the table.  Dorothy linked her hand through his arm. She nodded silently and twisted her other hand to form words. 

_ Okay? _

   Her encouraging smile was too great to pass up. Soon, Oliver's grin cracked and he moved his hands to reply. 

_ Yes, I'm okay, doll. _

 She smiled and motioned for him to eat more to gain his strength back. 

Sloane left the two and retreated back to her silent state. It was nice to see her gentle little sister melt his heart even at his angriest. He was always quick to defend himself and his pride, it was good to remind him to keep his head cool under stressful situations. Dorothy was a good, calming presence that could soothe anyone.

 She  _ knows _ that, and yet…

  “Where is Clovis, anyhow?” 

Amos piped up in between bites. 

 “I'm surprised he's not pigging out here with us.”

 “I thought I saw him by the creek before Ingrid rang for us.” Russel said.

   “Turned out to be a pumpkin on a fence post.” He chuckled at his own joke, Amos and Oli also getting a kick out of it.

  “Well, me and Milli saw him right before our lessons.” 

Eleanor swung her feet from her chair, playing with the food in her bowl.  _ 'Milli and I _ ,’ Millicent had softly corrected. 

  “Earnie was talking to him. I think as we were going outside to get Connor from the boys.” 

 Some turned to Earnest in question. His body posture turned more rigid than before, his hand trembled just barely while holding the spoon loosely in his grip. 

  “Said he had an errand to run and be back shortly.” 

 His voice was surprisingly even for feeling the weighted pressure on his shoulders. Anxious as he was, it was fair to keep any guilt he felt on the back burner for now.  For Clovis's sake and his own.

_ Yes, but- _

 Dorothy signed, her fingers quick to motion and mouth the words to follow along. 

_ It's awful dark now, and it's getting late… _

 “Oh, he's fine, Miss Dotty.” Boone says along with his hands.  “He's a big boy, probably just fell asleep somewhere again. He'll get hungry eventually and come out, always does. Can you pass the cornbread, honey?” 

  She slants her mouth in worry then passes a plate filled fresh bread. 

_ Yes, Mr. Boone. But he is still alone, and it's past curfew. _

   Earnest was a stone sitting there. Visible beads of sweat gathered on his brow.

  Sloane couldn't take the chewing and loud talking any longer.

 “So no one has a more recent account of him?” 

  Everyone looked at the other in confusion. 

    “Well, no ma'am.” Eleanor's tiny voice spoke. “I suppose not-”

“He's fine.” 

   Earnest says flatly, voice even, without much conviction. 

    “It's not like he ran away, he isn't  _ that _ thick in the head.” 

Sloane felt her skin bristle at the loose comment. Some resumed their eating while others silently watch. 

  “So you're saying you haven't seen him?”

 “No ma'am, I have and he left.. I'm  _ saying _ he's fine and he's sure he'll be home any minute.”

   Earnest tried to relax his postured but being cornered like this was making it hard remain rational. He didn't want her to know about the bank, about Clovis potentially making the family destitute without trying to fix it first. If she wasn't so damn  _ nosy _ and  _ protective _ and  _ harsh _ this would be easier. Maybe she would actually make an effort to understand. He normally would never talk back to her or keep secrets like this. Never dare raise his voice, but  _ 'desperate times’ _ he pondered.

  “Like I said, there's no rhyme or reason he'd run away, he's got no other place to go. He'll show up sooner or later.”

 “I said nothing about him running away, Earnest.” Sloane clutched her skirt tight, the fabric groaning under the pressure.

  “Unless, you know something that we all don't.” 

He neglects to answer, just as stone-faced as he always is. 

“Earnest.” She prods, her voice cutting through others like a knife. 

“He's fine, Sloane.  _ Goddamn,  _ how many times do I have to say it.” 

 Silverware jumped at the very vibration of her hand slapping the table. She hushed all noise in the house with one gesture. A few cups wiggled from their spots and fled to the floor. All eyes went to her, steaming as a vegetable and redder than a sickening fever. 

     “ **_What?_ ** _ ” _

  She was shocked to see the challenge in Earnest's eyes. He was angry enough to stare right back at her with the same animosity as she was casting. Sloane resisted the urge to flip the table here and now and commence the verbal  _ butt-whoopin’ _ she had in her arsenal. She'd be lying if she said she hadn't flipped a table or two at a handful of family gatherings. Red in the face, her fists swinging, voice cracking from the volume. That was a while ago, and she was a different person then. She was quick to fight and slow to think.  Easily ready to defend herself and her family from any threat. Now she was supposed to be a grown up. Responsible. Cool, and collected under pleasure. That same anger would not spare even her closest, most trusted blood relative. She could feel it practically snare her heart tight and twist. Choking  it with fear Turning so hard she felt nauseous. 

   “Ingrid,” she finally spoke, her voice thicker than an iceberg striking a ship. Ingrid soon busted through the kitchen, obviously listening at the door before she was called. 

 “Please take everyone out on the porch to finish their supper. I need to have a word here.” 

 “Yes, of course, ma'am.” Without a second to waste, she begins to shoo everyone out like a horde of cattle. Making demands that they better not spill one drop on the floor or else they were cleaning it up with their tongue. 

 Earnest set a cold stare matching hers at his family members went one by one. His fist tight on the table, ready to fight his case. Neither of them moved while the rest file out one by one. 

Millicent was the first to go, wordlessly tugging Connor and Eleanor with her. Smiling and helping them carry their bowls like nothing had happened. Amos, Oliver and Dorothy were next. Huddling together like penguins. Hurriedly the rest go filing out. Each one of them giving warry glances to the other and sympathetic looks to Earnie. Russel on the other hand sullied about the dinner table, harvesting all he could carry. As if it was his last day on earth.

 “For God sakes, Russ.” Barak whispered, tugging his arm as Russel grabbed an armful of bread and cheese as quickly as he could. His chair nearly toppling over as Barak tugged him on. 

  “Christ, man, I'm starving here! It's been a long day and I'm going-” his said hopping out of the dining room with everyone else. Crumbs of bread falling out of his grip as desperately as he tried to save him. 

  “-as fast as my legs and arms will take me. There's no telling how long this'll go on for. We could be out there for days!” His voice drifted off with the others as the screen door popped shut. 

 “ _ Damn!”  _ He whined lastly. 

__ It was like a dramatic standoff she'd heard rumors about but never really believed them. No gunfire but threat in her glare held a bullet for sure. She'd cut up his will. Chip it away until she got whatever answer he provided. Whether it be true or not.It was a long pause beneath her next words, only sounds of the fireplace and the blood pumping dangerously through her ears. 

 

  “So,” she folded her hands at her lap. “What's going on?”

-’-’-

He cursed himself a third time while circling the fork in the road one last time. Tex was getting restless with all this fruitless chasing, starting to tug at Arthur's grip on the reins. He jerked back again, trying to get him to turn back to town. Even the horse could convey that it wasn't the wisest decision to be in the middle of the forest at night. 

  “You're alright, boy.” 

 Arthur cooed, patting his neck heartily. 

 It irritated him that they were still fresh on the trail and he couldn't find any tracks to follow. They obviously were afraid of someone catching them, be it law or whoever could have been with that boy. 

Arthur sighed, relaxing into his seat and taking in his surroundings. Texas finally got his bearings too and let Arthur take in the scenery. 

 He should just turn around. It was so late in the evening already, and the boy probably got home safe. That boy was long gone by now and was over an hour away from town. Nearly too dark to see anything. He had plenty to do in the morning to haul funds back to the camp. God, he still needed way to actually get the money. Besides, the patrons at the bar were saying that he had family, maybe he made it home before the O'Driscoll's caught on. 

 Just the name alone set his anger and rushed his thoughts. The more he sat, the more he thought. They wouldn't have so easily left the boy alone if they did catch him. And they most likely wouldn't be kind enough to kill him right off the bat.  It's not uncommon for them to slaughter an entire family in one night. He heard one story about a man's wife being raped in front of him while his children were forced to watched then killed the four of them in an hour. Another time, he saw an O'Driscoll pound a little girls head so violent into a rock the side of her face looked like pulverized meat by the time the man was done. Arthur remembered the vile that sprung up and fell to the dirt as he was forced to scout and watch their movements. Unable to do anything but watch. 

  Arthur's stomach rolled again and kicked Texas to circle the area once more. He might've been a cold bastard but somewhere deep inside his soul, he felt more guilt than any man and would never forget the boy if he didn't try harder. 

 Texas stumbled in the dirt, trying to pull back again. Not having anymore of this fruitless venture.

   “Now come on, Tex. We just saw them bastards not but twenty minutes ago, they couldn't have gone far.” 

 Arthur pulled up to turn around and start over before he heard someone shuffling in the bushes nearby. 

 He instinctively pulled out his pistol in second towards the noise. Already on edge as is and slowly inched forward. He heard a low groan and sounds of someone struggling. No way he'd be jumped tonight by any false witness. He slowed Tex a bit more before he called out. 

 “Alright, now obviously stealth is not your fortè. So why not come out before I have to come find you.” The deep growl of his voice echoed to the receiving end and eventually replied distant. 

 “If you're back to try and get me to talk, it ain't gonna work. You might as well kill me while your at it, mate.” 

 Arthur tensed his brow, finding the the source of the noise off road, and over a steep hill. He swung his leg over and calmly slid off his saddle, softly patting his horse to stay put. He steps carefully through branches and crunchy leaves, slowing his breathing in case he needed to quick draw. His body casted a shadow from the moon casting down on his back. 

 “You alone, O'Driscoll?”

“ _ O'Driscoll _ ?” The voice says with a strained cough. 

  “Who in the bloody hell do you think you is? You think I just made a grand ole’ joy ride into this hell hole willingly? I ain't no gobshittin’ O'Driscoll,  _ friend _ .”

 He creeped over the hill to find a steep hole deep as a wale's grave. A boy no older than twenty-five buried in a foot of moist dirt, what looked like to be blood and a huge weight burying the right side of his body. His voice sounded like he was left there a while 

 “How long you been down there, boy?” 

 

  “Oh, ah,” he could rustled again, struggling beneath. 

 “'Bout three hours I would say. They stuck me down here after beatin’ me like a fuckin’ rug.” 

 He turned his head to spit at the ground, the cut in his mouth spewing blood with it. 

  Arthur lightly shook his head.

“What's that thing on you?”

 “Harriet.” The boy said lowly.    “Shot her and dropped her right on me.” He tried to push against her again, his free arm and leg weakly straining against her lifeless body.  

  “Didn't die ‘till about thirty minutes ago. Thought she could make it, I reckon.” He coughed again. Didn't have a thing  to put her out of her misery, the poor darlin’.” 

 The older man couldn't see the boy's face clearly but it was definate that he was shook up. Arthur nodded again, pushing himself up by his knees. 

 “Well, I'd imagine you'd be impatient to get out of there. You're arm and leg might be broken.” 

He laughed, already out of breath. 

 “Oh, thank Christ. Looks like we might have a detective on our hands.”

Arthur rolled his eyes, and whistled for Tex to grab some rope. Unsure exactly how he was going to the irish boy out of the muck.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little more Fairfield action than I was planning but next chapter will be a lot more Arthur heavy I promise!


	3. To Catch A Theif

When resembling a dislocated shoulder, the glenoid fossa, or the “C” shape socket is separated from the joint and needs to be pushed back into place. The humerus protrudes from its uniform section, sticking out in a gross display of deformity. Too much pressure and one could risk permanent damage. Far too little pressure and socket could receive the balled joint in a negative manner.

Arthur had fallen off his horse a time or two and popped the damn thing out of place before and recognized its ugly deform. Hosea, after the second time, showed him how to set it back in place by himself. But resetting it on another person wasn't something he wasn't all too familiar with.  
So when he sought to fix the young boy's shoulder, he remained calm and gentle.

  
“Christ on a bike!”

 

  
Well...as gentle as he could.

 

  
“You're fine, boy. Just keep it,” he quickly fashioned a makeshift sling out of his work vest and wrapped the boy's arm as expertly as he could.  
“-as close to your chest as you can. It needs time to reset. You're still young and spry, won't take but a couple months to feel normal again.”

It wasn't as difficult a task to get the boy out from under the horse as it was getting him out of the hole. Once he was free from Harriet's corpse, Arthur knew there was no chance of getting both himself and the boy out at once. He pulled free the rope on his belt and tied it around the young man's torso and hips. Entrusting it to him to use his good side to hold onto the rope and help himself out.

  
Wrapping the rope around Tex's saddle horn three times then pulled slowly to hoist the boy up and out. Surprisingly, he had even strength on his other side to help out.  
Getting him from there was the hard part and reinserting his torn shoulder wasn't much of a walk in the park either.

The boy breathed cold, sputtered puffs into the night air, sweat beating at his pinched brow and pressed his head tightly into the tree the stranger placed him to rest against.  
    "Jesus,” he shuttered in pain, his face contorting in sharp pain. Though it was relieved a tad bit more than it was out of place, he knew something had easily had torn up in there.

  
“Not that I'm ungrateful, but Jesus, mate. Ain't exactly the most warm introduction, God almighty I thought I was a goner for sure.” He couldn't seem to catch his breath and let his body rest against the trunk.

Arthur chuckled. “Well, I'm not sure about that but you're welcome.” He shifted uncomfortably and wiped his brow free of some dirt before running his hand down his shirt to shake off the leaves and twigs.  
“What you doing out so late, kid? Ain't nothing but trouble this time of night.”

 

He waved his hand dismissively before laying it across his stomach. “Just some unfinished business needed attending to, sir. Nothing special in the least.”

 

Arthur nodded, not exactly satisfied with the vague answer but let it be. He rested back on his ankles a bit.  
“Your family live far from here?”

“No sir, not much further,” his eyes shut tightly as he tried to push himself up with his left arm. Being left-handed was going to be an ass and half to deal with these next few months. Arthur offered his hand but the boy insisted on doing it himself and got up standing against the tree for further support. The boy spit at the ground to try and free himself from the staunch taste of Harriet's blood.

  
“About another thirty minutes on horse. Probably an hour on foot, maybe?”

Arthur stood as well, Texas soon walking up to his side within seconds.  
“What's your name, boy? If you supposedly ain't O'Driscoll.”  
He already knew it by what the bar patrons had gossiped about but he just wanted ripen his own assurance.

He cut his blurry eyes away from the hole back to the man who saved him from it.  “Clovis Fairfield, sir.”

Arthur grabbed his hat from his horses side, dusting his hair free from dirt before placing it on his head then grabbed a water canteen to hand to the boy.

 “Well, Clovis Fairfield, you've got three options. Option A: I give you a ride back to town since its closest. Get you a doctor for a proper examination and out of my hair.”  
He hadn't meant to sound so callous, but it slipped out before he could stop it. He paced in light steps around his horse, then reached to take his lantern in hand while Clovis took several thankful gulps.

  
“Option B: I let you walk back home or town alone and attend to my own duties as the atrocities that is the nightly predatory nature most likely swallow you whole.”  
That one definitely didn't seem ideal to either of them.

  
“Option C: I give you a ride home and watch as your momma gives you a proper talking for causing a gentleman, such as myself, going out of his way to save you like a damsel in distress.”  
Maybe they'd give him some compensation for his trouble. Arthur scowled at himself. He hated having that line of thinking. Always needing to get something, be it money, guns or food.

Clovis smiled with a shivering breath as Arthur shined a light up to his face.  
  “I ain't had a mother in years, sir. Besides, she wouldn't want any stranger near the house. Neither would the recent master of the house. I think I can make it here on my own.”

   Arthur smirked, not at all surprised in the shape this Clovis Fairfield was in once he got a better look at him. He had minor cuts and bruises all over his face, likely from being tossed around then dropped like a heavy sack of potatoes. Arthur briefly grimaced, his jaw was busted up something fierce, spits of red and purple peppering his lips and chin. Obviously the men who attacked him didn’t pull any punches, the boy was gonna need a doctor to close up the gashes eventually whether he went home now or tomorrow.  
“Why? You got some great Celtic treasure buried beneath it?”

 

  
“Hardy, har, har. Look at me, sir. Does it look like I'd be one to stash riches? Or how about going play cricket with the Governor? You gonna ask me for an invite? Anyhow, I think I'll be fine on-” The younger boy braced himself on the tree to stand but quickly retreated back with a stagger in his step.  
“Damn it.”  
       He hissed through his teeth.  
“Me ankle. It won't take much weight.”

Before Arthur could give his usual snarky reply with a solution, a light seemed to have gone off in Clovis’ head. His free hand patted down his pockets, swollen eyes flew wide with worry.

  
    “Blast.” His hand flew to his backside, searching the pockets there before slamming the back of his head against the tree in anger. He let out an angry yell and struck the bark behind him with his fist a few times.  
   “Blast me cock off straight into the Devil's frying pan!”

“What's that now?“ Arthur's frown deepened at the gaudy phrase.

    “My family's affairs,” Clovis breathed, his cheeks puffing in and out with painful, angry air. “I was-I had some business at the bank and when they jumped me just outside of town, they…” His words boiled over as he kept searching.

“They what?”

    “They took everything. All they money I had left over since the installment was- shit, they took everything. The deed, payment documents, every shred of proof that property belongs to us.” All at once, a second light of approximation went off in his head, his eyes quickly cut to the stranger before. It wasn't much, just a chance that this man would be of more use other than getting him out of a Home.  
  “We have to get it back.”

“Excuse me? We?” The older man laughed heartily. Not at all liking the determined look in the young man's eye. “Either they mushed ya’ head against rock hard enough to scramble your brain, or you must be joking.”

“I am not, sir.” Clovis said sternly.

Dutch had warned him of jobs like this. These regulars, these normal folk, appear like honest hard-working people at first, talking all helpless and weak. Taking extra precautions at all times when helping people like this were a must. He had been shot at too many times in too many different scenarios in too many set ups to count. Sometimes they were his own fault, believing the damsel in distress tactic.  
       Then they rob you blind of all you got and try to sell your remaining parts for good measure. Hell, he practically mastered it by now. Arthur had been all too familiar with the wounded nobleman tactic and he be damned if he made the same mistakes this boy could've been making now. Besides, if this child was telling the truth and his family is in dire need of whatever that trash gang took then...well, Arthur was all too familiar with that as well. Again, if his family was in jeopardy and Arthur left him now after helping him so much already, then how was he any better than those he hated? Maybe that's why he was actually considering to assist.

“There's easy cash in it, if that sweetens the deal.” Clovis didn't let him think for long.  
    “You seem to know plenty about them O'Driscoll’s and if you do, and have ‘dealt’ with them right proper, then you know what they got cooped up hidin’ in that precious stash of theirs.”  
He groaned finally getting the strength to push himself of his resting spot and stayed propped up by his hand.

Money. As always, the selling point. Damn it all, if he had all the money in the world that would solve all of his problems. The camp would be supplied constantly, or they could finally start anew and pay off Dutch's bounty. They could get new names and identities, ultimately a new occupation. Though, he knew it wasn't so simple as that. Dreaming it was easy. Having unlimited riches does thing things to people that he didn't want. After Blackwater, his taste for money died down, at least to an extent. That didn't erase the fact that he would always need it.

Arthur sighed before reaching out his free arm to offer leverage. “There's no such thing as easy money.’” he grumbled.  
Clovis shakily stretched his arm and was jerked into a cold grip. The man had his attention, his expression stoic and deadly serious. His lanturn rose and stayed close to get a clear look in the kid's eyes.  
     

         “Now, I'm choosing to trust you. You understand that, boy? What that means? You try to stab me in the back, you sell me out to Colm O'Driscoll or any sort, then there's nowhere in the world you could hide from me, you hear me? Not your family, friends or even lawmen can protect you.”

As much as his pride hurt, Clovis needed this stranger.. He couldn't go back to his family empty handed and temporarily cripple. He could never show his face again. As much as he didn't like it, he'd have to put faith in this very snarky man.

So, as always, Clovis flashes a charming smile. One that could fool the devil into giving up his lunch money.

“Same goes to you. Mister…?”

”Arthur.” The brutish man replies, helping Clovis to his feet.

-=-

Walter hadn't known how to react when Sloane excused everyone from the table. A cup that had wiggled away from her loud physical outburst caused it to splash off the table and onto his knee. He had looked up then, taking in the furious, downright murderous gleam in her eye. Earnest was a sitting stone, all signs of life drained from him. He knew there was something amiss between the two siblings, but he didn't think he would hear dishes crashing and voices bouncing back and forth from the front porch. Their voices were still low enough to keep their words hidden, yet rage still drummed through the floorboards and beneath his feet. However, they seemed to have wished to mask their anger with low hushed words. He tried to spring up conversation with the rest of his family, but everyone seemed keen on staying quiet.

He'd seen that look of choking rage before. She had been an unruly child. Loud-mouthed, disrespectful, defiant till she was blue in the face. An awful little ankle-biter. Emphasis on the biting, ‘cause boy would she.  
There's wildness is in that girl, unpredictable, dangerous- Walter would say to his son-in-law. Distinct and irreversible from birth, an intense passion cursed her being. A hot, burning coal became fuel in her veins to push that temper. He remembered screaming matches she would have with her older brother, mother and especially her father as a growing adolescent. It was a difficult upbringing, not ideal for a society lady in the least like her mother wanted.

Nowadays she had a better hold on it. Feeling that if she held herself at higher standard of precedence than those she associated her family's business with. A regalness of a society lady, yet the sharpened edge of a strict businessman. Though she didn't think herself better than anyone by the slightest, but she liked it better that people didn't think she played favorites. Kept all that boiling rage stewed up inside for Lord only knew how long. She held a cool-headed demeanor and wore it well. He couldn't remember what or why, but one day the flame that was quick to turn her vision red, faded to the shadows. Her face became just like her father's. Very solemn, and calculated.

He looked at his grandchildren all together, trying to make small talk while Earnest had his rear end handed to him.

   “You don't suppose,” Oliver spoke up, his eyes down at his bowl from his spot on the porch steps.  
   “You don't really suppose, Clovis went off on his own again do ya?”  
The question hung like a thick smog, no one wanted to believe it of course, but it wasn't the dumbest suggestion brought up tonight.

    “Don't be ridiculous,” Boone spat from his rocking chair, his pipe hanging rigidly from his lips.  
    “Ain't nothing that boy got going for him with that life anymore and he knows that. He probably just forgot something important and got lost after he finished his business. Or he stayed in town when he realized how late it actually was.” His words came out in quick smoky puffs.

   “What if he's dead?” Connor said loudly from his own spot opposite from Oliver.

   “Connor Fairfield.” Millicent seethed like the schoolteacher she is. The gape of her mouth and widened eyes were significantly appalled. Everyone's faces gave way that they were inclined to believe the child. Maybe that's what made her angry.  
   “I will not have that kind of talk, you hear me?”

    “Well,” Russel said, breathing out from his own cigarette.  
    “It _is_ a possibility.”

Millicent jerked her head around quickly to shush him. The worried look in Dotty and Eleanor's faces making her angrier by the minute. She clutched Eleanor's hand tight and signaled for Amos to sign for Dorothy. Milli kept her tight smile on display.  
“We don't know anything yet and it's irresponsible to assume such extremes. And if there really is trouble, Nanna will take care of it. She always does.”

Russel rolled his eyes, resting his elbows on the porch railing, turning back to the open field.  
“She can't fix everything.” He growled.

All conversation was stunted by the sudden swing and snap of the door hitting backlash before Sloane strolled out in quick, heavy steps. All eyes watched her silently. Earnest was obviously left behind as she continued. Her face was hooded beneath her hat. A rifle slung across her shoulders beneath a crisp hunting jacket, a pistol at her hip over her skirt. Her changed pair of boots bunted down the rickety steps with loud thuds. She didn't have time to change out of her day clothes.  
 

    “Russel, ” she said steadily. “Go ready mine and Mr. Boone's horses, please. As well as your own.”  
She ordered, implying that those horses belonging to strictly men of the homestead besides those called to stay back.

Her quiet demeanor set them all on edge but Russel gave a questionless ‘'yes, ma'am.’ and hurried to finish the task.

“Mr. Boone,”

.  “Yes, ma'am.” He replied lowly and handed his bowl to Ingrid, retreating into the house a brief moment to collect their weapons without being told..

Oliver quickly stood up as Sloane whistled for her stead. Luckily he was still set from their ride earlier today. Ready to join the search party without a second thought.  
“The answer is no, Oliver.”

His brow furrowed, his arms outstretched in exasperation. “But,”

 “ I don't think I need to tell you why you are going to stay back, am I?” She hadn't meant to yell, not at least in her level of tone. She watched Oliver's expression go blank and burrow his lips together in embarrassment. She shook her head and squared herself in front of the family.  
     

    “Now, I'll be back in a couple of hours. We're goin’ to town and see if we can find him and ask around if he ain't present. In the meantime, I need y'all to get the little ones to bed and keep your wits about you. Oli, Amos, Earnest and Barak will watch over the property until we get back, in case…”  
Sloane saw the dreaded looks on their faces, specially the little ones, and decided it was best to censor her turn of phrase. There wasn't a need to explain the grim details.  
 

   “Well, just in case. Earnie is our best shooter. If something goes awry, or you see someone stumble on the property, go to him immediately and let him know. Is that made clear?”

Everyone's nods came quick.

“Good.”

Boone came out moments later, his hat and jacket shrugged and bounded down the steps. Russel soon came with the horses, cranky from disturbed sleep. Mr. Boone tossed each their signature weapons, then gave a practice aim of his own before climbing onto his steed.

As she looked up to her family all huddled together, the missing members only stood out more. The worst always sprang to the mind first. Her reins groaned under her tight grip. The moment she rode away from the house, something-someone was going to pick them off one by one and pull them all away from their safe little nest.

  
Connor specifically pulled an extra brave face, shoulders and back straight. Though he had no idea what happened to his brother, he still remained steady. If she weren't so prideful and heinously angry, she would've given a reassuring smile. Tell them not to worry. She loved them too much to leave them unaware of the graveness of their situation.

With a few words from Boone to comfort the group and shoo them inside, Sloane jerked her horse around first to bound down the road towards Valentine. The rest of the men followed behind her.

Whether Clovis was alive or dead, she wasn't returning home without a body.

-’-’-’-’-’-’-’-’-

“Say what, now?”

“I said, there's thirteen of us. In exception of three of her field workers and the housekeeper.”

Arthur frowned while simultaneously keeping an eye out for the O'Driscoll cabin while making sure the boy behind him stayed on Tex properly. Sixteen, on one small property. He couldn't fathom why.  
“Well, shit, what she need three extra pairs of hands when she's got more than enough family to take care of things.”

“Don't get me started.” Clovis rolled his free-of-pain shoulder and adjusted himself on the seating.  
“Three of them are but children, the rest are either women or unable to help.”

“Sick?”

Clovis hesitated.  
“Some of them, yes.”

The older grunted in acknowledgment, clicking his tongue so Texas could recede into a slow gallop. Beneath a clearing, Arthur noticed the glint of weaponry and lamplight, capturing his attention deep between the trees. Arthur's first distinction was to move on, figuring the glittering was a creek or rushing water. Shushing the boy behind him, Arthur creeped Texas over behind a large tree, off the road. He spotted the roof and billowing smoke of a small cabin.

Without a word, Arthur helped Clovis down and hitched his horse, instructing the boy to wait while he slid off the saddle and grabbed his rifles.

Clovis tried to roll his shoulder and follow suit but was chastised by the older to stay put while he went to check things out.  
       “Yeah, right, and I'm bonnie Prince Charlie. How do I know you won't take my family's affects before rattin’ me out to them theivn’ trash? Not a chance in frozen hell, buddy boy.”

Arthur sighed, agitated and then tried to shove Clovis’ fist off his sleeve. “Give me a break, kid. Don't make me regret helping you. Won't take me but twenty minutes to get your things. Quick and easy job.”

Clovis’ grip tightened. “No.”

Only four men guarded the cabin. At least from the outside that he could see. There could be easily four or more inside. If he was careful, quiet and used optimal stealth to take out each guard. His throwing knives should be enough to handle the job, maybe if he could trust the boy to cover him, there would be a better chance of them making it out without a scratch. Quick and quiet.

To his relief, the men who guarded the outside were called in for a drink.

Arthur shook his head before squatting back down into a sitting position against a fallen tree trunk. He looked to up the boy and hurriedly gestured for him to hide the horse. Arthur soon joined the pair.

“You wanna fight that badly, Clover boy?” Arthur whispered, weaving his repeater from its hatch on Tex's saddle.  
       “If you can prop yourself on that trunk and shoot this with your good arm, you can pick a few off if they scare easy. Scope's in the bag. Take this too,” he said, picking his off his side then spinning the barrel to make sure it was full.  
    “Just in case they get too close for comfort.”

It wasn't exactly ideal, hiding out while this man he just met went into the lion's den on his behalf. Not like he had much of a choice, though he had made this very mistake before. He felt uncomfortable holding another man's weaponry, turning the revolver awkwardly in his thin hands.  
     “How do you know I wont just shoot you too? Or abandon you first chance I get?”

Arthur hesitated, squatting down eye level with the boy.  
    “You could, but believe me, I ain't that easy to kill and you in your...challenging predicament, I take it'd be less tempting to double-cross a perfectly healthy man.”  
He rose back up on his haunches, and readied himself to ease down the hill.

     “On the other hand, I doubt you could handle seven grown men on your own and I believe, if I'm being honest, you are indeed telling the truth. Shit, I had to help you on the horse before we got here. You're in no position to two-time anyone, partner.”  
Arthur crossed behind Clovis once he said nothing to dispute, keeping low to the ground and his steps light.  
     “Now, hush your mouth, wait here and keep low. If I ain't out in twenty minutes, assume the worst and climb onto old Tex there if you can manage.”

“Yes, but-”

“Ah, ah,” Arthur whispered lowly, pointing a finger at him and then silently repeated;  
“Hush, boy.”

Clovis kept his mouth opened to protest, but something inside of him told him to listen to this crazed cowboy and gently take his position. He prayed to God that he made the right decision. Since most of his big-boy decision making have been worse for ware crock of shit.  
He watched Arthur carefully, slowly slide down the hill. His arms and limbs in complete control of his silence.

Arthur looked over the moonlit dirt path and was tempted to cross over for an easier decent. Quieter, yes, but most likely to receive attention due to lighting. He could stay here amongst the most moving rocks and obnoxious crunches of leaves, or have a higher chance of being seen on the noiseless path.

He didn't have too long to debate. The sound of men yelling caught his attention. Laughing drunkenly and carrying on like the buffoons they were. The not too subtle sounds of footsteps halted Arthur, still starchy hidden in the thick shadow to the cabin.

The man still giggled as he wobbled back and forth while fumbling to unzip his pants.  
Arthur's skin stood, his body low to the grass but still in perfectly clear of the man. Sweat gathered on his forehead, watching the drunkard turn in complete opposite of Arthur and brace a hand against the house. Breathing a deep exasperated sigh as he relieved himself on the siding then started to whistle.

Clovis scrunched his nose from afar, looking through the scope in disgust. He shifted uncomfortably, trying to make sure his good arm didn't get too tired. Watching Arthur take his time and sneak towards the man was taxing taxing enough as is, much less waiting for his-

 _Oh_.

He blinked and looked again through the scope, the distant man falling to Arthur's feet with a twisted neck, his pants still open.

_He got him._


	4. Nay, If Thy Wits Run The Wild-Goose Chase

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> True it is that covetousness is rich, modesty starves - John Milton

“Any word?”  
  
 Boone’s boots packed down the saloon steps, lighting a cigarette and avoiding eye contact with his employer. “The bartender said he heard people talking about a red headed boy going into the bank. After said boy left, a gentleman left just as quickly. Expressed that he was a newcomer. Never been around these parts before.”

Sloane swallowed thickly, adjusting her own short brimmed hat, and pulled on her horse’s reins to steady them both.

    “Did he see where either of them were heading or say anything else?”

  Boone blew out a large puff into the night air, closing his eyes a moment to enjoy the sparks filling his brain from the deep drag.   “No, Ma’am. Got pretty busy afterwards. Workin’ girls started coming in and well I…” He coughed to shake off the uncomfortable topic.

 “That makes the jailhouse, the church and now saloon crossed off.”

  She sighed, stretching her neck to look at the night sky. Already so late.    “Alright.” She said lowly, pulling her horse’s reins and signaled Boone to get on his own steed.         “Let’s circle around town again once more before heading off.”

 Without question, Boone flicked his cigarette into the dirt and nodded. “Yes ma’am.”

  Normally, awkward silence didn’t bother him. Especially since she hadn’t hardly said a word since leaving the house. Boone cracked an eye over to her as they circled the horses around the saloon and followed the muddied road. Her back was ridgid, her eyes straight and dull at the road ahead. He cleared his throat after several moments of extreme awkward silence

 “It isn’t my place to ask questions, ma’am, but are you alright?”

“Yes.”

“Cause it seems, Miss Fairfield, that you're not exactly…”

 “ _E_ _xactly_?”

Boone cleared his throat, adjusting in his seat.

  “Nothing, ma'am. Just, I can't help but worry about you is all. No disrespect.”

 She restrained herself from snapping at him. Of course, she wasn't herself. Her brother was missing or kidnapped. From what Earnie had said, Clovis left home hours ago. At this point he could be anywhere. Across the county line even. She didn't have the energy after dealing with Earnie to express herself fully or dwell on 'what if's’. She would be fine after he was safely back at home. Her field manager was only trying to look after her well being.

 “Thank you, Mr. Boone. I am very grateful for your help.”

 

 “Ah,” He swiped his hand in the air dismissively. “Ain't much I am if I can't track one boy, but we'll manage. Russel has started to get better than I at these things. All them huntin’ trips are paying off.”  

 She hummed in agreement. “At least he's good for something besides cursin’ and eatin’.”

“Ain't that a sorry truth.”  Boon laughed, leaning forwards to see that same man galloping across the road, his eyes downcast at that mud. “Speak of the devil. Russel!”

 The man instantly lifted up his gaze, snapping his reins to signal his horse over to him quickly. He out of breath and kept his horse in motion. “Butcher said a skinny red headed boy left in a hurry going north towards the forest. Pretty soon he saw some other men hoopin’ and hollerin’ and going the same direction.”

 “So, he _was_ heading home. With a fat sack of cash. ” Boone said wearily. 

 Sloane's heart picked up speed, glancing to Boone and then kicked her horse and nodded to Russel. A light mist of rain began to hit her face.

  “Then we haven't got second to waste.”

-'-'-'-'-'-'-

Arthur finally breathed, stepped over the corpse and pushed up flat against the house's log siding. Getting his bearings as he inched to the edge of the home. He wasn't anxious, unless you can count being anxious to get to a warm bed and bath back in town.  Some shouting was exchanged, along with two men being tossed out on their hindquarters and told to keep watch as they were told apparently. One boy nearly lost his breeches as one of the higher-ups kicked him again before marching back inside.

  He wasn't the uppity sort, ain't got the time to pause and think on things like casting snap judgement, but the two boys sent out didn't seem to be the brightest these thugs had to offer. Both skinny, staring back and forth blankly on where they should go.

   _Good_ , Arthur thought. _Shouldn't be too tough to get through_.

 He hadn't anymore time to think and plan out as the boys ventured on. He crouched once he heard the rustling of a separate patrolman making his rounds. From what Arthur could tell since his decent, there was another man just at the opposite side of the house and then three more hunched over a fire up front.

  Just had to let him creep over the corner as Arthur waited and took slow steps as the man took to cover any sounds he made. He had to wait, grab him too early and the man on the opposite would see him, grab him too late and he was goner. His fingers flexed impatiently, his teeth clenched and waiting as he pressed himself closer to the wall and slowly brandished his knife.

  Just as the barrel of an old Repeater came into view, Arthur did not hesitate to grab it and swing the man around into the shadow at full force. Shocked, and too slow to process it, Arthur covers his mouth and burries a blade into his jugular.

Another one down and only a few more to go, then tackle the problems inside.

 Clovis lied in amazement as he watched a man at work, at some point he got two at one time with the same knife. Quiet , calm and collected, this man, this  _professional_ knew exactly what he was doing and how to do it cleanly. He did not hesitate and yet was patient when needed. It was quite clear that he had done this before and often. One goon nearly got him, surprising Arthur from behind and catching his jaw with the butt of his gun. Arthur had tried to dodge halfway and took the blow. He recovered quickly, tackling the man in return, splitting his gullet and covered his mouth before he made a sound.

 Arthur rubbed his jaw a moment, spitting at the ground as the man writhed in pain. He left him that way and went onto the next.

 One by one, even the two idiot boys, were flat on the ground.

  Clovis resisted a scoff as Arthur strolled to the front entrance with military-grade focus and heavily marched up the steps. Like it was literally a walk in the park.

   He pressed himself against the door to listen, hearing nothing but the gurgled drunken fools enjoying their recent self-proclaimed bounty. Arthur's fist tightened around the hilt of his knife, struggling with his thoughts on what to do. Either way he could deal with these fools easily. By what he gathered from the window, there weren't any more than four on the inside, at most five.

He checked to make sure his revolver was well fed, taking account that he loaned the other and had to remain conscientious about reloads.

 Holding onto his breath, Clovis watched Arthur kick in the door.

 

 -’-’-’-’-’-’-’-’-’-

 

 Tracks weren't that hard to follow once you got a lead or knew what you're looking for. Once Boone's eyes started straining, he had taught Russel everything he knew. Baiting is what Russel struggles most with, but finding things is what he prided in.

 His eyes followed the muddied tracks, semi-fresh but not all too clear, especially at the speed they were going at. Clovis had laughed at him, got his brothers to laugh at him to while he was making intricate designs in the horseshoes. Said it was a waste of time and proceeded to call him a ‘'slow old man” for taking time for each shoe. Russel couldn't help but grin.

  _Look who's laughing now, boy._

“How's it looking, Mr. Cunningham?”  Boon yelled after him.

 “It's looking!” Russel said the same thing he said five minutes ago.

“Well how much further you think we're _lookin’?”_

Russel shook his head. “Hard to say. The tracks have started to get messier.” He slowed his horse down, patting its neck as a signal to take a breather.

  “See here, they start crowding around each other and dive off into the woods.” He says pointing at the signs of struggle. Bullet shells scattered around, embedded into the dirt.

 “Looks like there was a fight before Clovis steered off.”

 Sloane felt her hands tighten around her reins, trying to keep her breathing under control despite the adrenaline seering through her.

 “One of us should stay on the road.” She said looking straight ahead but directing the statement at Boone.

Boone furrowed a brow and immediately cut anything further she had to say off. “Out of the question, maybe if there was four of us, but it isn't a good idea to split up at this time of night.”

 “Clearly, Clovis had the brains to go off into the forest to try and shake them. If the rain gets worse and floods the tracks then we're out of luck. If one of us needs to stay on the road. If they caught him, maybe they wouldn't bother to try and cover their tracks anymore further on.”

There wasn't much use arguing at this point, if a deciding factor wasn't made, she wouldn't hesitate to leave both of them there.  The field manager narrowed his eyes. She was still young and reckless.

 Boone huffed, looking over to Russel.

  “Can you handle the tracking  on your own, son?”

 Without hesitation, Russel replied. “O’course, even if the tracks drowned out, I can still follow shells- to an extent”

 Sloane's frown deepened. There really wasn't a need for her to be accompanied, she could handle herself and there were far more dangerous things in the woods. But seeing Boone as he was now, she knew there was no need to fight over this. She was still just a woman, and deep down she knew she could need the help if something were to happen. Again, she stuffed down her snap judgement and followed her instincts.

 “Alright, then. Just be safe, don't do anything too rash if you find yourself outnumbered. You've got your flare on you?”

“Yes, ma'am. If I find him I'll let you know.”  Russel tipped his hat to her, and went off into the shadowed heap of the woods.

She snapped her reins.

  “Let's get a move on then.”

 

-’-’-’-’-’-

 

Clovis wasn't exactly sure what he just saw. His eyes were dried out by the time Arthur made it back out of the cabin. Unable to blink much in fear of missing out.

   He was a mess, that was clear from the scope. His hat had been knocked off and blood smeared his hair into an awful swirled cow-lick he was trying to push back down. His hide jacket forgotten and left behind as he swiped the dirt off his pants. He shook out his hand, more blood flicking out onto the grass beneath him, making it very obvious there were no survivors.

 

 A worried slump gathered in Clovis' throat. He didn't see _his_ pack. Arthur was trudging back up the steep hill seemingly empty handed. In a moment's weakness, Clovis tightened his good arm around the weapon, looking down at Arthur nervously. The man was still on high from the slaughter, a calm look in his eyes.

  What if he kept the money? Planned letting on Clovis in a false sense of security before leaving him in a ditch like the others. He forced himself to backtrack and think rationally. Arthur was getting closer, within earshot of Clovis.

He sunk lower to the leaves, trying to keep from falling.

 “Alright,” Arthur huffed, plopping his own satchel next to Clovis then  dropped down to his  backside, resting his back to the tree trunk. 

  “It's all there, kid. The cash, the account transactions and deeds, everything you left the bank with.”

 Clovis's eyes widened, shifting as quick as he could to take a look himself. All pretences before completely erased. 

 “ _Jesus Christ_.”

 “Sorry about your bag, they'd ripped it up and threw it into the fire.” He sighed wiping sweat from his forehead, reaching into his pocket for something to chew or smoke.

 “I…” Clovis breathed. “I don't believe it.”

 Arthur reached down and lit a match and cupped his hand behind it to light the cigarette dangling from his lips.

 “Yep.”

Clovis felt his eyes shine with gratitude, downright grateful to his core. A kid on Christmas morning. “You've saved me, mister.”

 “Ah, well,” Arthur cleared his throat uncomfortably. “I got what I was looking’ for..” He smiled with the smoke between his lips, waving a money clip out before putting it away in his shirt pocket.   “Ain't no reason for getting emotional.” He said offhandedly, gesturing to his guns still sitting next to the boy.

 “Never has there been a man to grow without regret, and lived to tell the tale.”

 

 Clovis nodded to him and handed over the weaponry. A symbol of sorts. The two finally choosing to trust the other. Swallowing back his shaky voice, Clovis sat there with all of his family's property returned. He was going to get when he got home, that fear alone was overwashed with the relief he felt. Though pain coursed through him like hot coals. Arthur gave the final word and released him of his worry, yet here he was, saved by a stranger and damn near crying like a child.

 

     “Anyhow,” Arthur, standing to his feet and stomping the lite into the damp  dirt. It was going to rain soon and he wanted to get the kid home before it hit hard. The boy was looking more sickly by the minute as it is.  “Let's get you on home. Your family's probably worried sick about you, four-leaf.” He grinned beneath the blood and dirt on his face, offering a hand down to the younger.

 Clovis laughed after discreetly wiping his eyes with the back of his torn sleeve and took the man's hand once more.

   “Yeah,” he laughed with strain in his voice. Raindrops started to plop on their heads as Arthur helped him along back to Tex.

  “We're gonna have to take the long way around to your house just in case we're followed so I'll need you to give me directions.”

  Arthur carefully unbuckled his sleeping pack and threw it around Clovis. The boy embarrassingly tried to pull off himself but was quickly smacked by Arthur as he climbed up.

  “Just take the damn blanket and quit being such a misty-eyed welp about it. It's gonna be a bit of a ride and we're gonna get caught smack-dab in the middle of this weather front.”

 Clovis was about to say something smart when Arthur gave Texas a hearty kick and sent them off at a spiraling rate.

 “Sorry about your hat, sir.”

 Arthur chuckled loudly, shouting back.  “Ah, I got a spare on ole’ Tex here.”

 -’-’-’-’-’-’-

  There are turning points in a person's life that alter the course of their future. Accidents or instances in one's to reverse a complete expectation of what reality is. Her life had changed when a scrawny boy showed up on her family's doorstep to beg for shelter.

 As Sloane stared into the blood curdled cabin, a cold sweat rolling down her neck to peel her skin to goosebump all over, a harsh reality revealed itself. Rain muted most of her scurrying sounds of night. Searching behind the tossed and broken table, checking to see if any of them were alive to tell her something.

 “Miss Fairfield,”

 Her hands searched from body to body. Peeling back their ugly corpses and s clothes, luckily coming up empty. If she wasn't so frantic, she wouldn't habe gone over a few of the same bodies twice. Each one of them more disappointing than the last. She tore open the cupboards, cabinets as well as any loose floorboards for any secrets. But it was all picked clean.

 _Somebody_ had come out on top, checked the place and ditched. No lawman in their right mind would leave a place in such disarray.

 “Miss Fairfield.” Boone said again, resting a hand on her shoulder from behind.

  “He's not here.”  He patted her a couple more times, before gesturing to their exit. She relaxed slightly, her lips pulled to a sharp frown as her teeth tightened behind them.

 “Come on, now.” He said. “This ain't a friendly place.”

 As they walked down the steps and back to their horses, rain hit her shoulders like sharp blows. Everything there was cleaned out, the bodies not even cold. Sloane wasn't a surprise that their raid was unsuccessful, but more than she felt what her life was worth, she wanted to at least find a body. She felt the corners of her eyes sting in gut wrenching disappointment, wordlessly climbing onto her horse.

 She didn't even realize Russel had found them. The two men exchanged a few words, solemn but urgent.

  She couldn't hear or even notice them until Boone strolled up.

    “Miss,” Boone's voice cut through the hard rain as Russel left to ride back up to the road.

 “I don't....Harriet is dead. She's in a ditch 'bout three miles east of here. Mr. Fairfield wasn't down there with her that I could see. It was pretty deep and there wasn't much room other than the poor girl.

     Sloane, at that moment, wasn't sure what to believe. It was just one thing after another now. The weight in her chest stated one thing, while her head and stomach agreed on something else. For the first time in a long while, she hadn't the faintest idea what to do. She promised her family to bring back something. Returning without a shred of proof, like she didn't even try to find Clovis was just as worse as returning with him dead. Her father would've known what to do. Her eyes darted with her racing thoughts, as if they had manifested before .

  “I used to raise Pointers and Bloodhounds,” Boone said as the rain had started to pick up. “Sometimes when they were pups they would get out of their pin. It isn't for any reason, not to hurt feelings but because of their own curiosity and need to stretch their legs. Eventually in all their wandering, they'd get lost and have to depend on their senses to return.” He nodded to her, gesturing for them to join back onto the road.

 “Those worth keeping, would always find their way back home.”

 She folded her bottom lip between her teeth and grounded tight, her eyes downcast and angry. All she could manage was a curt nod.

So, they left.

    Drenched, defeated, empty-handed.

 

-’-’-’-’-’-’-

 

 First thing upon their arrival, Oliver had the most questions every what, when, and how as many as he could possibly think of. Boone had stopped him the third time around, not wanting to bother bother Miss Fairfield more than ought to be. Boone would handle the explaining, at least that's what he said. Tonight was upsetting enough.

   Ingrid had wordlessly started boiling water for the three to freshen up and instructed all three to go change before anything was done. As expected, the children were tucked away, hopefully fast seep. Walter was asleep as certain as his snores coming from his bedroom door.  Earnie was hanging around the back porch with his weapon in hand, Oliver told her Amos was at his side.

 She dropped of her hat, letting it slap on the nightstand with a curt _thwap_. She wanted to sit down, lie back and rest her eyes, but somehow it felt wrong to. Sloane slowly peeled back the spongy husk of her jacket along with her boots filled with watery gook and sloshy material. A chill in the air pierced bone once she removed her sopping shirt and skirts. Her skin was cold, wrinkled to a prune down to the soles of her feet and palms of her hands, pads of her fingers.

Resisting the strong urge to wrap herself in the blankets of her bed and never return, she let herself stand uneasy in her cold undergarments. Distracted, caught up in her thoughts. Her toes curled into a familiar opening in the floorboards. One hand pressed tight to her stomach to fight the nauseous waves that would come and go.

What on _earth_ was she to say to them?

 Sloane's other hand pressed to her mouth, physically shaking and lightheaded. Fingers curling into a tight fist

 They would think she was a complete failure. Unable to help just one person of her family much less her whole household. She might as well have shot her brother in cold blood.

 Voices of her relatives, business partners and townspeople crashed back and forth in her skull. They wouldn't stop. Choking what little air there was in her lungs and squeezed them to half their size.

 

_Unfortunate girl._

 

_Waste of land._

 

_Ugly bitch._

 

_Murderer._

 

_Big talking poser._

 

_Irresponsible._

 

_Uncouth._

 

_A girl playing in daddy's shoes._

 

_Fucking Fairfield trash._

 

_Failure._

 

_Failure._

 

_Failure._

 

_Failure._

 

 **_Failure_ ** _._

_-’-’-’-’-’-’-’-_

 

 Boone sat in the rocking chair on the front porch alone. Cutting all other options out, this was really the simplest way. Wait it out. If the boy wasn't back by morning, which was in a few hours, they'd go to the sheriff's house. With Harriet _'disposed’_ of, brutishly speaking, these guys clearly were not  messing around. How coincidental that they would just leave a large number of corpses out in the open with no intention of being discreet. More reason to get law enforcement involved.

 However, given the family's past with who he suspected could be behind this, Sloane and her brothers would be against it. Boone himself wasn't all too thrilled to get the law mixed in, it just made things more public. Bad for business, bad for the family. But that was it, Clovis _was_ family. All options had to be considered, it would be wrong not to consider them.

  Oliver was oddly quiet when he came out to accompany the older fellow. Boone had pulled him from Sloane, she had enough for one night and needed a few moments alone. After everything was explained, he hadn't said a word. Boone was expecting him to scream about some heroic rescue. One that sounded like it was straight out of a cowboy legend, but he was silent. Boone sighed in relief as he rocked slowly in his chair. Maybe the boy is growing up after all.

 

 Russel came out the swinging porch door and quietly shut it behind him. A dry shirt and trousers fresh on his body. He shivered unpleasantly, breathing warm air into his hands and shimmying them together.

 “It's colder than St. Nick's balls out here. At least the rain's blown through. Probably plowing down Valentine now.”

“Mm.”   Boone grunted in agreement, taking a long puff of his cigar.

   “It'll warm up in the morning. My damn knee has stopped aching _as much,_ so,” he took another long pull. “That counts for something.”

“ _So_ ,” Russel said, hobbling over to rest his his shoulder against the wooden column beside the steps.

 “We going after O'Driscoll or what?”

 

Boone's eyes snapped open. “Excuse me?”

 

 “Don't play dumb.” He laughed. “ Isn't it just a little _too_ dandy that we stumble upon Harriet and a pile of O'Driscoll corpse's. I mean, they had their colors and everything, Boone. Somebody's tryin’ to rile us up. Wouldn't hurt to hear sides, and if they got Clovis, then boom. We got what we needed.”  

 The older man shook his head. Resisting the urge to jump up and slap that dazed look off the younger man's face. It was never just talking with Colm.

  “Now, Russel look at Oliver here. He's taking to the quiet sort, ain't jumping to conclusions or causing an unnecessary fuss. He's rational, now. Not talking like a damn fool desperate to die.” Boone's voice laced with threat.

 “Oh,” Oliver turned to them, red fueled up his face. “Nah, I'm pissed. I’d go get the son of a bitch now.”

That prompted Boone to rise up from his chair, throwing the cigar into the wet dirt afar with angry vigor.

  “Boy, I knew you just couldn't wait to pipe in with something stupid. Just when I was praising you, you listen to this jackass.”

 Russel couldn't keep quiet for long, his eyes filling with that same heated anger. The stress of it all getting to him.

  “Get your warts out if your eyes, you old coot! That boy has been missing for _hours!_ And what were you gonna do in the morning? Get ahold of the sheriff and his idiot deputies? He could be in the next state for all we know! Either dead, deranged or in danger, that boy is long gone. And the longer we sit here and waiting for nothing the longer he's out there.”

 Boone's fist shook as he withheld it from striking the boy down a peg.

 “You keep your fucking voice down. You weren't here when we had dealin's with the likes of them. Ain't nothing but trouble involving those thugs.”

 “Maybe so,” Russel growled back. “But I'd rather do something than sit on my ass while one of our own could've possibly robbed us blind.”

 Oliver's wide, angry eyes shot up at  Russel. Appalled he would imply such a thing.   “Take it back.”

 Russell's own angry glare gave it right back to him.

   “Truth hurts, kid. I'm not saying he has, I'm just saying with both parties hurting, who's to say he didn't take off-”

 

 “ _That is enough_.”

 

All further arguing came at a screeching halt as they turned to see Sloane in the doorway. Fresh faced yet looking like hell. Their faces suddenly drained of color, her eyes melting down each of them to cower shamefully.

   “Tomorrow, we _will_ head out further. The storms were too rough so if he, or _they_ , took off, at some point they would be stopping to rest. We will wait until then. I refuse this type of behavior amongst this household."

 The elder Fairfield walked to the railing next to Oliver, her hands crossing over the other. Subtly picking at the sleeves of her sweater.

 “If he doesn't return, if we can't find him...”

She didnt go to finish the thought and they didn't finish it for her. The shorter looked out over their wide fields. How it twisted and turned. Its long flat land with an occasional bump in a hillside. Morning dew already covered it in a cold blanket and the night sky was about forfeit its right to the lightness of day. Her hands gripped the chipped railing, eyes forward on the shadows of trees.

“We'll go to-”

   Her words stopped dead in its tracks. Brow rissen, and eyes wide.

 They all stepped forward in question, not even bothering to look where she was.

“Nan,” Oliver spoke gently, careful not to anger her. When she did not answer, he brushed a hand over her shoulder. “Sloane, what's wrong?

 Slowly, all four of them looked in the same direction. A lone rider casted in darkness stood out. He was soaked to the bone, his horse neighed in sweet relief as he was finally instructed to walk instead of run. The rider mumbled words of encouragement to his steed as they got closer and closer. A large slump rested behind the man.

Oliver stepped in front of his older sister on instinct, as did the other men. Russel cocked his gun on instinct, aiming it at the man.

 “Not another step!”

 The shadowed man seemed surprised and put his hands up wide so they could see his surrender.

 “Woah, there.” the man said, letting his horse step a little more to the light.

 “I ain't meaning no harm! I got something of yours is all-”

 “Oh, aye! Russel!” The boy that sat behind the stranger, just as soaked and stretched his arm and waved in a delighted panic. " You best put that thing away before you poke someone's eye out!”

 Clovis poked his head from the stranger's shoulder, making all three of them jump to action.

“Where have you been, boy?!” Boone yelled.

  "Oh, ya know, this an' that really! Ran into some trouble, Made some acquaintances." 

  Oliver bounded down the steps, eager to blindly help lead the men the closer to the house. The shameless grin on his face proud. 

Sloane did not see it that way.

 

“ _Clovis Sutton Fairfield.”_

 

 She immediately crumbled any further words from being spoken. The sheer timbre if her voice causing old Tex and Oliver stumble to a halt. Arthur could barely even see the tiny thing before she pushed through the men and stomped down the steps. Her face steaming red and damp curls clinging to her cheeks. Made her look even more manic and distraught. _Furious_. 

 

 “You get off that horse _right now.”_


	5. He's Adopted

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He had to deal all at once with the packed regrets and stifled memories of an inarticulate lifetime  
> \- Edith Wharton

 

 A rescue mission never felt so lousy.

 

  Arthur witnessed as Clovis’s brothers helped him off Tex while the boy went on about the dramatic affair. The stout woman eyed him the whole time as she stayed rooted in place. Even as he gave a hand to the younger boy behind him, she did not take an eye off him for  a second. It wasn’t so much that he was intimidated by this sour looking elder sister, but off-put and uncomfortable. Like she could see right through him. Her body language already expressing that she knew exactly what he was capable of. _Assuming_ , Arthur had to remind himself. Blackwater was far from here. No need to get nervous by this little shrimp. The top of her head probably didn’t even reach his chin and yet she looked like as if she was ready to brawl any second. But looking at her now, Arthur could tell that she knew he wouldn’t try anything and that he would easily take her out if he wished. She'd go down with swinging fists and gnashing teeth until her last breath.

  Arthur smirked and arrogantly tipped his hat to her with a smile.

She did _not_ like that.

 “It isn’t what you think, Sloane.” Clovis breathed out quickly, careful as Boone wrapped an arm around his waist while Oliver hooked underneath the arms.

  “This man, he was the one who found me and-”

 “Get him inside and tell Ingrid to send for the doctor first light.”

 Clovis tried to explain himself further but Boone had already jerked the boy at his side..

 “Yes, ma’am.”

 Clovis looked back to Arthur annoyed, but the man extended his fingers in a low, reassuring wave. He understood well enough that the boy was thankful already, it was the master of the house that needed persuading. 

 She waited and watched the three limp the young boy all the way across the soft, wet grass and back into the house. Russel nodded to her from the dimly lit porch, wordlessly refusing to go inside until the  _visitor_ turned his horse around and left.  Boone scolded Clovis the whole way. Sloane didn’t even know where to begin. From the curfew violation to disrespecting her brother and herself, to the injuries and presumed ambush he had been blindsided with. To _worrying_ them all to death.  Her mind was surprisingly quiet, enraged but still. She almost forgot about the stranger while trying to calmly rationalize what she was to say.

 Arthur watched the same sight. Shaking his head at the boys’ delirious slang and upbeat tone, despite the pile of shit he buried himself in. Though he was in dreaded pain, he still tried to entertain. It would be impressive if he wasn't so bone-headed.

Given the lady’s tone of command, Clovis was likely to receive more than an _ass-whoopin'_ when she figured a decent punishment. The taller man at the porch glared at him and waited, he didn't look like either the woman or Clovis and assumed him to be her husband.

He breathed a soft chuckle through his nose once he looked back down to her.

    Arthur was was familiar with her type. _The Mother._ A protector to the life they had built out here. Guardian to their close knit way of living, making sure no outsiders touched it.  He wasn't so shrewd as to assume that their life was anything remotely regular.

 The moment all the men walked into the house, Sloane lifted her head back up. The night began to fade into the cool blue of morning, her face was a bit clearer. As was her scowl. Freckles noticeably dotted all over her face like brown sugar on a cake. A clump softly dusted her cheekbones and across the bridge of her nose, then dipped down to line her jaw, chin and walked down her neck. Arthur thought he might've studied her a bit too long because she broke eye contact and looked to his horse.  He resisted a sly smile. Maybe it was the artist in him, taking in the detail to memorize for his journal. This time, he sensed that there was no hope of charming a woman who wanted nothing more right now than blood on her hands.

 “He's a character.” He said lightheartedly to ease some of the tension.

    “He's adopted.” She spat angrily while looking to the house.

 He wasn't aware if he should laugh, but _damn_ he sure did want to. Reaching back into his saddle bags, he pulled out a satchel and reached down to her.

 “The boy had this with him, reckon it belongs to you.”

 Sloane was hesitant, but took a step towards him. She didn't make eye contact but settled to stare at the united handkerchief around his neck. His collarbone stuck out from beneath his shirt, just below the fabric. A purple spot was swollen on the skin. Her eyes traveled on up past the stubble of his jaw where specks of dried blood had stained and then saw the corners of his mouth turn upwards in a smile.

   “I don't bite.” He says in a low, hushed inflection.

 She cleared her throat, realized she was staring and took the bag without haste. Her hand furthest from his as possible. Quickly opening it to identify all its contents.

  Sloane sighed and looked back up to him with her arms crossed around to shield some of the cold after slinging the satchel strap across her chest.

  “Thank you for returning him...and this.” The sound of voice matched her earlier command. Tense, low and direct.

  “I am very sorry for the trouble my brother has caused. He was not raised to act so irresponsibly.”

  “If it's any consolation,” He leaned to rest his forearms on top of Tex's saddle. Attempting to bravely act as mediator.  “He was fearless and did not blubber a second.”

“He's _something_ alright.”

 He could tell she did not want to deal with him anymore than she needed to. Distracted with all that's happened.

  “I can give you compensation, it's only fair. However I cannot promise I can give enough for what you did.” She was already turning her foot to leave when he stopped her.

 “No, _ah_ , that's not necessary.” Arthur rubbed the back of his neck. Uncomfortable grime pushed around his skin. It didn't feel right to plunder the cash he pocketed at the cabin then turn around and violate the deal he struck with the boy. His gut told him otherwise, to take both and run for it but he declined.

  “It didn't take much to give the boy a ride home.”

 “I see,” she glanced at his dirty clothes. “It was little more than that though, wasn't it?”

 He tightened his fingers into a fist, palms slicking into a cold sweat. Did she suspect him already? He followed her eyes and looked down at himself.  _Ah_ , he _was_ a little worse for wear. The blood and mud mostly sloughed off in the rain for the most part. A little clung to his collar and at his waist but it was hard to see in the dark lighting. Arthur swiped his shirt self-consciously.

 “He was outnumbered, dropped off in a ditch and left for dead.”

  She nodded, her bottom lip disappearing in between her teeth. Crossing her arms and looking to Tex's retracting ears.

 “The money is all there,” he says lowly, not trying to accuse her of anything. HE understood how it all looked to her. “I didn't take a cent.”

“That's not-” she replied quickly then huffed a moment to gather her wits.

  “That isn't what I’m concerned about, sir, at this given time. What troubles me is how you just “ _stumbled_ ” upon Clovis in the middle of the woods so late at night. Just out of the blue?”

 Arthur was taken back, laughing in a state of dubiety.

  “Look, ma'am, I saw the boy, picked him up, retrieved his stolen goods and brought him here. I was at the bar in town and saw some thugs follow him after he left the bank. That's all that happened. No one told me where he was, no one sent me, I just found him, miss.”

 She waited for any further statements he had to offer and placed her hands on her hips, perplexed.

 “So, you followed the men and dug him out.”

He nodded. “Yes, ma'am. That is the extent.”

Sloane inhaled deeply and released a long sigh.

  “Okay.” She shook her head, running a hand through her damp, tangled mess of hair.   “I'm sorry to take so much of your time, mister. I can only hope it wasn't Clovis’ idea either to get you mixed up in all of this. I think it's best, if you truly aren't looking for anything in return, to part company here. I'm positive you have much to attend to. It's been a long night.”

 Arthur knew the shallow appreciation wasn't exactly ill-intended. Here he was, a stranger strolling onto private property with a family's young member sitting on the back of his horse. Bloody and beaten and unaccounted for all night long. Hell, Arthur was exhausted.  He didn't blame her for wanting to get rid of him as fast as possible. Arthur himself hadn't much else to say and she wasn't giving any indication of pleasant conversation.

The man pulled on Tex's reins. “Of course, Miss Fairfield.”

He was too tired to engage further and again, tipped his hat to her in a last stitch effort to offer respect.

 “My condolences to your prize breed. The boy's mare was a beauty.”

     She watched him turn and kick his horse to walk. Sloane clenched her teeth, a fire in her gut set in a blaze of anger. She wanted to question him further, but the night had been long, and the day ahead even longer.

 “Mister,” She called once he go to the edge of the road, swallowing back her nerve. He stopped and looked back. “Were you...did you do it?”

  It wasn't visible, the look on his face. A cabin full of dead bodies wasn't exactly the most gentlemanly thing to omit to. Especially when it came to first impressions. After all , Dutch was adamant about keeping that damn low profile. Especially with the locals.  He cracked a grin even though she couldn't see it clearly and offered a slight wave. Arthur could see her little hand clench at the fibres of her full sweater loose around her arms. He wished he was closer to see her expression.

“Goodnight, Miss Fairfield.”

 And just as mysterious as he arrived, the stranger left. Sloane made sure he kicked up enough dust until he was out of sight then turned on her heel to head back up to the porch. Her mind heavy and exhausted. Still, a great feeling of dread stamped on her chest. She did not condone violence to the children unless its for their own protection, but the implicit statement of the stranger gave her some satisfaction. Whoever dared to kidnap one of her own was dead. By the looks of the corpses, if he did kill those men, she was glad.

“What did he say?” Russel asked as she tiredly walked up the steps.

 

 She patted his arm and retreated inside. “Nothing Clovis won't tell us, I'm sure.”

 

   _-’-’-’-’-’-’-’-_

 

 Boone brought the boiling water from the kitchen while Ingrid placed a blanket around Clovis’ shoulders. He already had a fever and was shivering from his wet clothes. Both Oliver and Boone had helped him change and inspected his wounds then brought him to the living room by the fire. Amos, Barak and Earnest had come around after hearing all the commotion.

 Clovis was right about what the stranger told him about his shoulder, Boone noticed. Thankfully the boy wasn't a damn fool for letting this unknown man fix it.

 “You shoulda’ seen him move,” Clovis rambled with what sounded like rocks in his throat.   “He killed all of them just’ like _that_ , I tell ya’.” He snapped the fingers belonging to his good arm for emphasis. “ It was a pure work of fiction unfolding before my eyes, gents. Faster than Oli, sharper-shooter than Earnest, stronger that Amos and Barak put together. He about pulled me outta’ there by himself! God, if I could do away with men like that-”

 “That's enough, young man.” Ingrid wailed, pulling his blanket tighter around his narrow shoulders and pushing the hot tea in his hands closer to his lips.

  “Best to keep your voice down and save your strength. You've seen enough excitement for one night.”

“It can't be helped,” Amos shook his head, crossing his arms while rest on the wall close to the fire. “He's in shock. Acting even more stupid than usual.”

 “I ain't in shock, ya’ daft cunt.” Clovis growled, resisting the chilly quiver of his lip to stunt his speech.

 “He's just tired and not sure of all that he's seen.” Boone came around the chair he sat in and brought a footrest to keep his mangled leg up. The older man could barely see the bone sticking out from his skin and intense swelling in same area. It didn't look pretty, but it could've been far worse.

 “I know what saw- _Satan's fresh hell,_ that hurts!” Clovis snapped towards Boone.

 “Well there's one thing to glean from all this.” Oliver adds from his side with a ridiculous smile.

 “Sloane's gonna tear up your hide so hard, we'll be sellin’ your leftovers to the butcher.”

 They all stopped any and all conversation once she entered the house with Russel. Completely bypassing the living room, she walked into her office and locked the door behind her. Clovis’ story ceased and one by one everybody parted from him, Russel came in and said that she was turning in to rest up but they both knew that she would be unable to sleep after everything.. All were going to have a couple hours of rest then only get half a day's work done. She would just have to be okay with that fact. She refused to sacrifice quality over quantity.

A greater thing to fear than rage, was the silence.

  All Sloane could think was about the mess they were in. Word was going to get around about those dead men and her brother being the only survivor. Men die all the time, but hopefully in the way it was set up. People would think it was just gang on gang violence. But, people saw Clovis being chased by them. People talk faster than dying. That man saw Clovis make it out, how was she to know he wouldn’t say anything. Boast about his score and what not. However, he’d be foolish to openly killing seven men. If it was like last time, if people started knocking on her door-

 She opened her ledger to arrange her files to prepare for the lost work tomorrow. She’d have to take up Clovis’ work, move some money around for the doctor's services and medicines. Possibly take out of her pocket to help pay for it, it wasn't right to use the farm money for personal use. Despite Russel’s offer to do double shifts, she readily declined. Her family, her responsibility.

 She scowled angrily. That man was definitely new in town. Valentine was still roughly a thirty minute ride from her house. Perhaps even if the stranger said anything, he wouldn’t remember were they lived. It was plausible to think Colm would take in every violent criminal desperate for a penny. They had settled their differences a long time ago and swore in blood to stay away from the other.

  But this man didn’t seem to resemble that manner. He was on edge but calm...she regretted not getting his name. Only a well-shaped smile.

 

     _No_ , She couldn’t think about that now. There were many things to do.

 

  And they were behind.

 

 -’-’-’-’-’-’-’-’-

 

 It was nearly seven thirty in morning when Arthur made it back to camp. Javier welcomed him as he rode in.

 “Damn,” Javier whistled low. “You look a little roughed up, eh? Had some _real_ fun last night?”

 “Shut it.” Arthur grumbled while the man only laughed. _Fun,_ is not at all how he would describe it.  His bones and muscles were angry at him for not getting their proper rest. Tex was tired and grateful to lie down with his friends out to pasture. Most of the people residing in their camp was up and about, ready to start the day. That is everybody except miss  Molly O’ Shea, who was sleeping like a baby.

 He sighed deeply, making pleasantries with his comrades like usual. It wasn't out of the ordinary to be this worn looking. He'd been in worse scraps than a simple cabin raid, but still.   That didn't stop a few of them checking up on him. The ladies were the most caring for him, making sure he had plenty of food and fresh clothes though he never asked them to do so.

 “Everything okay?” Dutch asked from his tent, a cigar in his hand.

    “Peaches and cream.” He said, waving a fat money clip his way without stopping his path towards the tent.  A sure sign that money box was gonna eat healthy today. Maybe now he would have an excuse to sleep the morning away without any complaints from the others.

 Dutch smirked and gave a hearty chuckle, arms outstretched in revelation. “Good man. You see? _This_ is the dedication I'm looking for people. We only been here a matter of days and one our fearless leaders already is setting a prime example.” 

 Arthur grinned at the prodding speech. Although he wasn't wrong. Times were tough and everyone needed to step up. Perhaps Arthur would have worded it differently. He knew men like John or Bill didn't care much for him being Dutch's “favorite”.

 The minute he arrived to his makeshift home, Arthur undid the thin ropes holding the loose flaps of his tent up to regain some privacy. A thick sigh of relief left him once most of the morning sun was blocked out. Appreciating the small little gift of temporary seclusion. He shucked off his vile shirt and flung it beneath his bedside. A pain riled up from his shoulder muscle all the way to his jaw as he did so. Those Irish pub crawlers were stupid but most had the appropriate aim for a good hit. Arthur cracked his neck and chose to ignore it. His shoes and socks were next along with his trousers, not noticing the cut across his thigh until he glanced down and clicked his tongue.

  _Huh._

 Wouldn't need stitches but it still wasn't a very pretty sight. He called out for Tilly to bring him the sanitary alcohol, ointment medicine and bandages from his tent. The girl happily attened to the the task. He only poked his arm out to retrieve the supplies once they were brought. Not wanting to scare the lady with him being in his undergarments.

 He frowned at the mild pain as he wrapped the wound up tight. Maybe he _was_ getting slower in his age. He wasn't a twenty-something anymore. The younger men in the group made fun of his years more and more it seemed like these days. There was such a time when _he_ was the one crackin’ jokes at old timers. Now he _was_ the old-timer. Sure, he thought the jokes were all in good fun but something nagged his mind lately. A hilt of a tiny voice that egged him on the teetering edge of something akin to embarrassment.

   He thought of the woman. She couldn't have been much younger than him, but her life seemed a bit more tasteful than his. Chaotic, terrible at times but put together and wrapped up nicely. He chose this life and wouldn't have it any other way. The touch of freedom was far too great.

 However, something felt wrong when he left that woman's property. She offered compensation, which he did not take.  

  _Why_ didn't he take it? Dutch would've been disappointed he found out that Arthur didn't receive free cash, better than stolen. Besides what was so different about this time? Yes, he had O'Driscoll money and that was enough and she wouldn't have given him anymore than fifteen or twenty dollars, so why did he feel like this? She was so quick to give him money like he was for sure a mercenary or conman. Maybe it wasn’t the money at all. She looked at him made him feel low. It wasn’t like her younger brother’s sunny disposition. Overly appreciating in his naivety. She saw through him. Just like he analyzed her, she reinstated it ten-fold. He had felt uncomfortable in her presence. Like she had the very power to crack open his skull and tear into the very memory and misdeeds of his past. It was unnerving to be known as a dangerous man right of the bat without much of a introduction. And for once he did not take pride in it, did not justify it.  

  He looked down at the name freshly written in his journal.

 

    _Sloane Fairfield_

 

Arthur blinked, unsure when he physically sat down, opened it to a clean page and scribbled it down. Heat bit shrewdly at the tips of his ears. Unsure what reason or need for her name to be right there.  Almost instantly, he snapped the book shut. Clearing his throat, he tossed it back on his bed. For a moment thinking he was going to rip the page out. There wasn't a reason to record this memory. He would never see them again anyhow.

 Arthur shook his head, going to his lukewarm wash bowl and splashing his face as clean as could manage without soap. Bring the water around his neck as well to free him of the grime. Time lately did not give enough to allow him to think on these things. There was a plan, not so clear but promised simplicity. Dutch would follow through. After the shit show in Blackwater, they had little choice. They- _He_ had to trust Dutch.

  Arthur turned back to his journal on the bed and stared at it for several moments. Pondering.

  _Nope_.

 He wouldn't think about it anymore.

 Arthur threw the old thing onto his nightstand by the picture of Mary. Choosing to forget about the whole ordeal. Getting comfortable into the cot and snuggling the blanket tight around him. Back facing the journal.

.

 

.

 

.

 

.

 

.

       _Sloane Fairfield._

 

_An Irish woman, lacking the accent, I had met shortly after rescuing her younger brother Clovis. Unconventional boy with a fast mouth and a clumsy foot. He had a run of  bad luck hit with some of Colm's shitheads stalking him like fresh meat. I went against my instincts a tracked him down, helped him and got him home safely. I'm unsure why I helped him without much convincing. I felt - responsible for him once I saw those savages ride on after him. Like it was something I could definitely stop._

_After the whole ordeal, I returned the boy home to find folks waiting for him. It had been clear that they were chasing after him as well._

_I've had the pleasure and displeasure of meeting_ _women in my life, but this woman, she was rare-_

He quickly scratched that part out and started anew.

_-She seemed genuine. Strange, but showed gumption. Her brother's sudden dramatic arrival clearly caught them off guard. She did not yell, didn't scream like a wild hen but held such an authority that challenged the Van der Linde method.  Did not show an ounce of fear. They acted immediately, without question and let her speak with me in private. No man in their right mind would leave a lady like her alone with a man like me. A stranger, a killer._

_But she spoke with me, thanked me and sent me on my way._

 Arthur paused, letting his pencil go slack a moment as he thought. He remembered her freckles, tapping a few dots on the paper. He could have said more but feared losing his unbiased opinion.

_I doubt I’ll come across them again._

 

_[Fairfield Ballad's/Measure of One's Character Playlist](https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PL2DsO61oyM5XJkhZqxdYnLAFgOqo1CuAg) _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A shorter chapter today, next one will be longer!!  
> Please please please leave a comment and kudos! Both are greatly appreciated!


	6. Intent

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Please enjoy!

 The doctor saw Clovis that early afternoon. He had a wide fracture, torn muscles in his leg and properly reassembled dislocated shoulder. Said he was lucky someone was there to realign the bones correctly, it was easy to cause permanent damage if done wrong. Recovery time was a whopping eight weeks for the fracture and thirteen for his shoulder. He hadn't been too happy about sitting around, but got used to the idea that he was gonna be off his feet. He even gloated to the rest of the men in the house about how easy he was gonna take these next few weeks. Sloane gave him a swift reality check. Nothing for him but doing laundry, cooking, cleaning and everyday household chores. Within his limits of course.

 “That's not exactly fair!” He said only half-joking. “Look! Pa gets to sit in his chair all day without liftin’ a finger.”

 Her temper had fumed then, giving him a darkly grim look. The desperate attempt to remain lazy becoming less bearable by the minute.

   “Pa didn't make an _ass_ of himself, and put his family in jeopardy, now did he?”

 “ _Haw!!”_ Grandpa Walter hollard from wherever he was in the house and that was the end of it.

   Picking up Poppy was a trip for sure. The pastor’s wife had insisted that little Fairfield sister stay another night. Sloane sternly declined and reassured that they would be fine. Perhaps, she might've been too harsh with her. The woman was only trying to help and surly was aware of the Fairfield’s jaded past. They’ve always managed when something like this were to happen. The pastor's wife wasn't trying to be insulting.  Sloane wrote her an apology note and dropped it off at the church on the way home that day.

“What’s wrong with Clovis?” Poppy asked on the way home after Sloane mentioned his injury. He was the one that usually picked her up from her sleepovers.

 “He fell in a hole.” Sloane said bluntly, her eyes straight on the road.

 “Oh,”  The girl had snorted then laughed openly. “Sounds like him! ”

 Sloane’s mouth pulled into a smile though the anger still burned bright.

 

     Days passed and everything seemed like it was going back to normal.

 

 The children had questions of course, which Clovis happily informed in all of its grandeur. An insane, unbelievable story of a good Samaritan cowboy rescuing him and saving the family in one night. Thankfully censoring some of the gorey details in the stranger's rescue. She was frustrated at first telling him not to fill their heads with unrealistic statements of what really happened. However much she wished it would go away, the anger remained.  The boy just couldn't help himself. Sloane steered clear of him, his tale a mere fantasy over fact making her hair stand on end. He could spin a story like Walter could, though it was more impish and whimsy. The boy loved seeing their faces light up in delight. Maybe that’s why she didn’t scold him.

  However, in that time she learned of the stranger’s name. That, she knew Clovis didn’t decorate.

 She had written to her sister working in New York the following day, informing about the whole affair. The two were close yet Sloane had always felt uncomfortable writing personal letters rather than one's of business. Virginia was the colorful and cultured one. Always embellishing her letters and speech with lovely words and charming anecdotes that made one feel special. She would be rather put off by the direction of Sloane's, as Virginia would put it, _old-man_ letters. Saying that she did find them charming in their own way, she openly wished that Sloane would try to express herself more. Most likely in a romantic sense.

  However, if she layered Clovis’ temporary condition too thick, Virginia would come home in a heartbeat. The young lady had her own worries with her work, there wasn't a need to make her nervous. She settled on a simple letter and briefly glazed it with what happened to Clovis at the end. Yes, she would have questions, but miss Virginia Fairfield would be sated with the facts for now and knowing he was well.

   Sloane had fallen asleep at her desk again the next morning. One arm tucked under her head, laying on a stack of papers that stuck to her face when she rose from sleep. A pen still played slack in her palm, dried up at the tip. That’s right she would need to send off letters today at the post. The scent of fresh coffee roused her from sleep, a blanket draped snugly around her shoulders. Ingrid's doing, she assumed with a smile. She winced and cracked her spine with a great stretch. They all scolded her for doing so, sleeping at her desk. Sneaking to her room to clean herself up was a task in itself.

 

 After dressing in a fresh pair of clothes, washing her face and pinning her hair up, Sloane left the bedroom and was greeted with the early morning sounds of the family gathered around a half-eaten breakfast spread. Most of the men had already gone to start work in the fields, except Clovis for obvious reasons. He was still sound asleep on the old couch in the living room. It took everything in Sloane’s power not to go and wake him up to start folding laundry. He sure as hell didn’t do any last night.

 

She sits down next to Grandpa Walter, kicking herself for being late. No way she could scold Clovis when she was behind as well. After scarfing down a few spoonfuls of oatmeal with one hand and going over the shopping list in the other. They’d have to hurry if all the farmwork was to be completed for today. Hopefully the post office wouldn’t take too long.

A tiny hand tugged on her sleeve until she looked down.

 “I drew you a duck.” Connor, the youngest, whispered. He scooted his chair closer, sliding the paper to Sloane like it was some top secret exchange. “Milli wanted me to surprise you but I couldn't wait anymore. His name is Phil and he wants to go to town with us.”

 “Us?”  The drawing itself was delightfully crude. Yellow, fluffy and with a crooked smile regardless of his beak.  Sloane resisted a snort at his seriousness.

“What use does a duck have in town? He should be in the pond or lake with the other ducks.”

 “He wants to buy a suit.” Connor said without a second to waste.

      “Does he now," She leaned in with a fist resting beneath her cheek and elbow on the table.

 “And what makes you think I'm taking either of you to town? Amos doesn't like to take side stops, and we're only going to a few places. We should be back this afternoon-”

  Her smile was slow to catch up but stretched her face happily.

 “He said he’s fine with tagging along to keep you company.” Connor pushed around the food on his plate.

 “Ah, moral support, huh? Hmm.” Sloane pondered while he looked at her with hopeful eyes.

  “Are you sure it isn't just you that wants to go?”

  It was a slow realization but he nodded. Figured in his little mind it was better to be honest.

 “I do want to go, Nana. I even finished my homework.”

 She sighed dramatically, then nudged him with a playful chide. He _did_ finish his homework without being told to after all.

“I guess we can make some room on the carriage. Best get your shoes on then.”

 His laugh was sweet, infectious. He jumped up and kissed her cheek. Shoveling all the food leftover, knowing that Ingrid would come make him finish it all anyhow, then rushed upstairs.

 Sloane laughed, downing the last bit of her coffee and going over the list at hand one more time. She squinted, the words. Burry and irritating as she reclined then leaned forward again to try and make quick sense of it.

 “Face it, love,” Ingrid said over her, topping off her cup with a fresh brew. “Ya’ need some of them speckies.”

“I do not _need speckies_.” She said still trying to clear up the foggy words. “I just need to wait until the words clear up.”

“Oh, but you do. Every morning you wake up, come to breakfast, sit down and squint at the newspaper like poor Walt over there.”

The old man in question looked over at the mention of his name. His mouth and eyepatch curling upwards in a cheeky grin. Old croak of his voice immediately melting hearts.

  “Did you say something, sweetheart?”

 “Nothing, Mr. Fairfield,” Ingrid said a little too loudly, taking the empty pates out from under them. Sloane’s eyes widened in desperation not to get him involved, mouth pulled together in a tight pout. “Jus’ your sweet ole’ gran-nan is being stubborn is all, hurtin’ her eyes like you.”

“Ah, Nan,” He said, directing his irresistible sweet smile towards the accused. “Why don’t ya’ take proper care of yourself? With all the glories in modern medicine, you choose not to use them. Do you want the headaches, dear?” He put a hand over his heart. “You know it hurts me to see you struggle.”

 “Now, don’t start that again.” Sloane groaned, taking another long sip before standing to her feet and crossing over to the back door. “Don’t use Pa’ against me, Ingrid.”

 “Aye! He will start it up again!” Igrid yelled from the kitchen. “What use is there to read if ya’ can’t see the words?”

 Sloane swung it open as she was chastised. Breath of the cool mid-morning whispering her loose hairs wildly. One thing worse than a good talking to was the guilt her grandfather could spin perfectly. Out of the goodness of his heart, of course.

  She called for Amos, who was already hitching up the horses from what she could see. Letters to post and grocery list in one hand while motioning for Connor to hurry up with the other.

  “Come on, boy. We’re burning daylight!”

 Connor grunted as he squeezed his foot in his hand-me-down shoes and grabbed his picture of Phil to fold up in his pocket.  “I’m coming, Nanna!” He squeaked, squabbling to his feet and grabbing her hand.

 “Hey!” Poppy called from the dinner table, her hands slapped against the surface. “Why does he get to go!?” She yelled accusingly, her braids bouncing. Dorothy reached for her hand to quiet her down. “I’ve been nothing but good and-”

“Did _you_ finish _your_ homework, Penelope?” Sloane gave her a sideways eye.

The girl’s silence was enough. Dorothy, who sat beside her, patted her comfortingly on the back and waved to the pair exiting.

 

-’-’-’-’-’-’-’-’-’-

 Rocky as the road was, their trip to Valentine wasn't at all terrible. Connor wasn't much of a talker. For a while they thought he was mute, only giving nods and gestures of understanding. As he got older, he found that there was too much to say to keep completely silent anymore. He mostly read  children's books, colored pictures and kept to himself. Occasionally, he would sit in her office  to count pebbles he picked up from outside then kept an organized list for each pebble category. Like he was keeping his own ledger.

 And as always, he would asked to sing on the trip, Sloane would kindly refuse but gladly listen to him sing. He might've been the quiet, stone-face type but he absolutely adored music.  There was a shift whenever their family sang together. It put smiles on people's faces and passed the time.

 “But you always say that!” Connor pulled at her sleeve, trying to keep steady on the carriage as Amos calmed the horses.

   “You used to sing all the time!”

 “Who told you that?”

 “Granpa’ Walt. He said Daddy used to play the guitar and you would sing at Tagwen's Harvest every year.”

 “I don't know,” Sloane crossed her arms then propped a single finger underneath her chin.   “That doesn't very well sound like me. Besides honey, Pa’ is very old and isn't sure what he's saying sometimes. You're not telling stories outside of school are you?”

It wasn't that she didn't love music herself, it was in her blood after all. She always cherished the soft sounds of the family's melodies out on the porch. Fairfield's and music went hand in hand like milk to a babe. Nearly all of them knew how to play an instrument,  sing or dance with the greatest of ease. Sloane was held up in her office most of the time, but she would hear them and recline her head in sweet relief. Listening and recording every sound to memory. How rare it was to find happiness out here. Life was harsh and unkind. Everyone worked, scraped, and saved to get just a fraction of it. The necessities to survive. Long were her days gone from things like practicing music. But she encouraged her family to keep the skill alive, to nurture it and hold it dear. It was gift that shouldn't be squandered.

  “No, ma'am! I ain’t tellin’ stories!” the little boy pulled her sleeve, trying to get her attention even more.   “Please, Nanna!”

  “Connor,” she huffed, flicking his cheek with a soft _thwup._ _“Stop.”_

His nose crinkled and rubbed the tiny despot that had formed. He wasn't one to pout, but the urge to poke out that bottom lip was too tempting. Amos chuckled back to them. Eyes still on the road.

 “C'mon, Sloane. I'll sing with ya’ if it helps. Ain't as appealing when only the men are singing when there's a lady present.”

  Eventually, she sighed and accepted. Her only condition was to keep a lower key.

“Splendid!” Connor exclaimed. “How 'bout the yellow one? With flowers and girls-”

 “Not that song again,” Amos said with a slight slump of his shoulders. “We sing that damn hick song all the time.” a smile was on his face that didn't match his tone of voice. Connor shooed him off and started the song anyways. Amos begrudgingly followed behind.

 The Yellow Rose of Texas wasn't everyone's favorite. It was old, but somehow never lost its style.

_-’-’-’-’-’-’-_

 

_She cursed herself for leaving her hat._

  Cheery disposition was not something Sloane could easily dispense. She was focused at one goal at a time. There was just too much to do to keep everything afloat. Not that she felt burdened, it was just part of her daily routine. Eyes hard and steady, straight ahead with her shoulders squared. It wasn't like this was a particular fancy town, most people were just passing through and had no actually intention of staying long.  A few upper class women did give few side eyes at her choice of dress.  She wore muted colors and a thick grey wrap around her shoulders even though it was rather warm outside. Her shoes were old, practical, and heinous to the trained eye.She had replaced the soles three times now, but they were still good. Large folds of the socks she wore peeked out the cuffs, clearly made for men. Deprecating eyes were easier to take than it used to be. Although, it was a difficult lesson to teach her siblings. She hardly noticed the prying eyes and snide remarks anymore.

 She sat on a bench inside the Valentine post office, counting the letters in her bag for the second time. Mostly for business and few for family. Amos had parked their carriage out by the theater tent and took Connor to the butcher and then to the doctor’s house to pick up fresh supplies. Ever since Clovis got hurt, they’d been running low. ‘Course those working out in the field got hurt all the time it seemed. Just last week Oliver cut his hand while sawing up some timbre. Got infected and was an ugly sight to see. First aid kits were nothing Sloane stuck her nose up to. She managed a lot of people and it was important to keep everyone healthy and working properly. And since Virginia helped with the doctor’s office, they’d got pretty decent discount on medical supplies.

   Fitz Gibbens’ name stood out while shuffling through the letters. She frowned deeply. When he found out Harriet had been killed, he had cut the deal entirely, saying once they got a better stock of cattle he'd make a different offer.

She sighed. It was understandable, surly. But without Fitzgerald Gibbens’ deal they’d be eating more lean these next few months.

  Perhaps they would try trading with the vegetable farmer down the road from the house. It was a stretch, but he was always trading. He always bought soap from the girls in exchange for fresh green. His son’s skin was patchy and ridden with scabs at all times, at change of the season especially. Milli’s Primrose soap mixture always seemed to calm the welps. Oatmeal Sunflower in the winter.

 Another letter that stuck out  was one from the Mrs. Downes in New Hanover. Weeks ago she wrote, a couple of days before Clovis’ accident. Sloane hadn’t meant to put off writing back for long but it just happened that way but she knew what was in it. Mr. Downes, in all his naivety, had gotten them into deep trouble. His wife blamed it on a feeble, sick-ridden mind. In respect of their past, Sloane leant what little she could spare but only if the wife of the house kept it secret.

Was it the right thing to do? She wasn’t at all sure. Every letter Mrs. Downes sent, all Sloane could think about is the Fairfields in their early days. So very few of them, hardly getting by. She wasn’t born yet, neither was the oldest sibling, but by the looks on their parent's faces it must've been rather grey. Her mother and father had only been married a year, bringing Grandpa Walt with them. Fresh from Ireland and eager for a new life.     

 Her mother looked alot like Edith Downes. Desperate, scared for her husband and especially for her child. They were dealt a bad hand and all they had was each other. Sloane took the time when she could and visited them to see how things were, Mr. Downes looking worse with each passing day. So she limited her appearances predominantly to letters. She knew Thomas was ill, but she never imagined that she would have to tell her family to stay away from them.

 Nauseated after the recent calling, she remembered her mother in her final days alot like how Thomas was now. She could still taste the hot, starchy vomit retched in the grass once apart from the small family. Her hands shaking as she held her stomach, tears wetting the slope of her already sweat-ridden neck.

 “Miss S. Fairfield?”

 Sloane immediately rose and put away the grim thoughts, a small bag full of letters to send in hand. The teller was uncomfortably kind and cheery. Sloane avoided eye contact. Woosy from her earlier depth of memory. She thanked the man accepting the letters posted to her and dispensing the ones she had previously had. Since she lived in vicinity of all her business deals, she saw no reason to have strangers stop by her property for mailing purposes. It was harder while Virginia was not in town to pick them up or drop them off like usual.

_-’-’-’-’-’-’-_

   “Now there’s a face I hadn’t seen in a while.”

 Sloane offered a tight smile while entering the _Worths General Store._ Exchanging in brief pleasantries while she fished out her shopping list.

 “Missed you last month when your brothers came in. I’m not sure they knew your usual order though.” The man behind the counter chuckled, grabbing his inventory catalogue and sliding it between them.

“I know,” She shook her head with a loose laugh, approaching the counter.    “An overwhelming amount of jerky, peaches, tobacco and cigars.”

 “By your tone,” The man said lightly. “I imagine you sent them back for a reason.”

She sighed and shook her head, handing him her usual items listed. “Indeed.”

  “Luckily, I figured you’d be around this time Miss, so I got most of your items ready to go.”   He laughed and greeted the newcomers at the chime of door. “I’ll be with y’all in a moment.” He nodded to them then back to Sloane. “Why don’t you take a look around until I collect your things from the back, ma’am. I’ve got some new perfume samples next to hair care. Very prestigious.”

  He waved her list behind him as he retreated behind the door. “Straight from Paris!”

   _And God’s spits curses out his arse,_ she thinks in Pa’s voice.

 Sloane nodded and drifted away from the counter as the man retreated to his stockroom. When she first took over the homestead, this trip took over an hour. Earnest and Boone had waited outside and said nothing when she came out. The older gentleman that owned the store previously had been patient with and helped her the absolute necessities. Inside she was panicking and the man could tell. But he was quiet and kind. The budget was tight then as it is presently but Sloane had a level head. At least there currently was a bit more leeway when it came to finances.  Now, she was down to a near scheduled visit. Only a matter of minutes and she was out of there.

 Sloane bypassed the chatting gentleman, going to the opposite end of the store. Ignoring them as much as she could.

  “ _So, what do you need?”_

She doesn’t mean to listen but gleans bits and pieces. Idly turning over a lady’s etiquette magazine next to a headless cushion model wrapped in a woman’s coat. It doesn’t interest her long, moving onto the wall display near the window display. She picks up a can not really reading the label. Seeing the picture of the deer, she’s reminded of Walter’s old sketchbooks.

 “ _Hell, a drop of whisky to start._ ” _The older voice croaks. “A lil’ somethin’ to pass the time while we’re waiting on the women.”_

 Sloane resisted a long sigh, this early in the day? Glad she didn’t bring Connor in here with her.

_Degenerates._

   She carefully listened to their footsteps with her back turned, setting the can back down and onto another unreadable product. No need to worry with them being this far from her. 

 “ _Always thinking ahead, ain’t ya’?_ ” The other man said.

  “ _You’re looking a bit tired there, Arthur_.”

   She dropped the can, and cursed under her breath as it rolled away from her boots. Her eyes widened to saucers and felt men staring at her briefly. The older man chuckled and continued on, crossing to the other side. Going on about some offhand subject.

  “ _Why don’t you pick up some coffee while we’re here?_ ”

   More footsteps. This time closer.

_Shit, shit, shit._

Sloane breathed her nose and tried to move, a voice spilled into her ears. Smooth and familiar.

 “I believe you dropped this, miss.”

He thankfully kept his distance out of respect but she did not take the can, frozen in her step. 

 “Thank you.” She managed to spit out and moved around him, clenching close to the counter. She wished she hadn't spoke.

  He paused himself, but tilted his head curiously. Whatever he was going to say on impulse died in his throat. “Don’t mention it.” he mumbled, turning the can over in his hands before setting it back on its display.

She tapped her fingers on the surface counter impatiently, her toes wiggling inside her boots. Leaning forward in attempt to see the general store owner. Her other hand tightened around the shawl closed at her chest. What on earth was taking so long? Why on _earth_ did she forget her hat?

 The bloody stubble of his jaw entered her mind. Smell of O’Driscoll corpses in a distant cabin. Wet puddles of blood with every step. 

 

   He walked around her and situated near the register, opening the store catalogue. Not really looking at the pages as he flipped through. Obviously, the stuff he needed was already on the counter. The older man had left just moments ago.

“Hot one today.” He mentions idly, flicking another page out of the way.

 “Mm.”

Her fingers tapped faster, pressing hard into the surface.

He was silent for a bit, it didn’t last long.

  “How’s the boy?”

 The tapping stopped, another damn page. Head turning slightly, she could barely see the outline of his face and the brim of the same hat he had on his horse that night. Of course, he recognized her.

  “Fine.”

_Arthur._

 Another page.

 That was his name. Clovis had said it many times now no matter how many times people told him they heard enough about it. Hearing it out loud by a random individual seemed to make it a reality. 

“The shoulder?”

She almost started yelling for the store owner right there. There was a time crunch as is, this was no time for such an awkward encounter. The blood pictured in her mind dipped lower on his neck, then collarbone. His shirt would stain.

  Her fist clenched her skirt and forced an answer.

 “Fine.”

What was she so skittish for anyways? He was just like any other man, no matter what he’s done to help her brother. Maybe it was the hope that would simply paint him to be a drifter. A pretty, mysterious element to Clovis’ story. No sane man stuck around after something like that. After doing what he did.

 “Hmm.” He nodded, leaning forward. “And you?”

 “Well here you are, ma’am!” The clerk emerged, a stupid smile on his face. A large, fat sack of supplies waiting on the counter for her to take. “Sorry for the wait-”

Sloane made the two men jump with a mighty slap on the counter. Cash pinned underneath her sweaty palm and the surface. She grabbed the full burlap sack and turned on her heel.

“ _Good day.”_

 Her boots knocked on the wood beneath her, the door bell dinged above as she stormed out.

 It didn’t matter how rude she looked. He _knew_ how this was supposed to go. Hell, its happened enough times. She thanked him that night and told him to be on his way. She knew nothing else, though Arthur's gut told him something. Dutch _warned_ him to stay to stay away from the locals. Look for work under the radar and be done with it.

So _why_ would he approach her twice?

“Keep the change.” He said to the clerk, and fled out the door as well.

  Once, outside he looked both ways and saw the woman’s storming walk down the steps of the store to the right. He walked on, tripping on Uncle’s boots crossed over each other.

“Goddamnit, Uncle.” He hissed, kicking the older man's feet out of the way and dropped the contents of his recent purchase into Uncle's lap.

“ _Hey_!”

She didn't stop. In fact picked up her step, turning a corner behind the store.

_Shit._

 Arthur's stomach dropped. The sheriff's house was just up the road. Only a few buildings down. He followed her movements, about to turn the corner out of public view. He could see himself in handcuffs again. Being carted away as his company watched. 

He had to get to her. _Explain_ things and calm her down. By force if he had to-

 But she wasn't anywhere to be found.

    **_Shit._ **

 All he saw after that was the thick, rough fabric of burlap, covering bashing his vision black and tossing him down right on his ass.

 “ _Goddamn_!” Arthur yelps, covering his nose with both hands, fingers meeting at the bridge. Spiralling into the grass when she hit him again at the shoulder, his head slamming into the wooden house behind. Right on his backside, he dropped and briefly rolled on his side. 

Miss Fairfield stood over him, the heavy sack still slung over her shoulder, ready to deliver another heavy blow. Her eyes were wide, shoulders driving back for a deep swing.

“ _Wait, wait, wait!”_ Arthur waved one hand up to her, making her pause. Words muffled behind a hand clutching his mouth and nose. “ _Look I jus’ wanno’ touwlk-_!”

 She stayed her hand, but did not move an inch.

  “Why are you following me?”

 

_[Fairfield Ballad's/Measure of One's Character Playlist](https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PL2DsO61oyM5XJkhZqxdYnLAFgOqo1CuAg) _

 

 

_And now, a word from our sponser:[yeet](https://youtu.be/4_iLFT86y3k)_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I SWEAR IT THIS TIME , next chapter will be much longer!


	7. The Whites of Their Eyes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Pride slays thanksgiving ... A prideful man is seldom a grateful man, for he never thinks he gets as much as he deserves.”  
> ― Henry Ward Beecher

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ahead of schedule, my babies? WHAT?

 

 Let us be clear about something, intimidation was Arthur's bread and butter. His ventures were successful often because of this tactic he cultivated so perfectly.  Causing the behavior in an otherwise perfectly ordinary person to clench up and melt, giving in to fear of the unexpected. This being one of many of his specialties. Man or woman, when or where, it virtually never failed him.  

  So when this unearthly thing, this unwonted female stood over him.  Arthur wasn't sure what to say or think. Beaten by a little woman and thrown to the ground at sheer assumption of _possible_ threatening action on his part was baffling.  It never occurred to him that she would immediately respond. He sat reclined in bewilderment with a bloody nose like a bullied wimp in the schoolyard. _Shit_ , heat even started crawling up his neck when found himself worrying if she was going to strike him again.

“ _I just wanna talk_.”

  Sloane's shoulders stiffened when he started getting to his feet. Raising the bag she held tight in her hands as a warning. Blood dripped from his nose as he put both hands up in defense and eased to his haunches. Traces of the brawny liquid already stained his skin. Her lips drew tighter together, not taking any chances and took a menacing step forward.  

  “ What is it you want? Money?”

No sign of the same gentle treatment in return, Arthur stayed low and calm but slightly bristled at the comment. Arms outstretched in case she would attack, he rose higher.

   “No! No, I just-”

“Given the circumstances, _sir_ , you can see why that would be hard for me to believe. That you mean no harm.”

 If she was afraid, there was no indication. Only in the slightest movement or word he would see her throat muscles clench and the jaw above tighten. She was tense of course, expectant of what could happen. Just like when he brought the boy home, she was solid. Prepared, knowing what damage he could do. This woman had not a single use for the sweet whispers of a dandy or the reassurance of a gentleman. His usual words of comfort to calm a devastating woman would not work. For a moment he was frustrated, mouth agape

Again she pressed him for time he no longer had. One false move and he would be out in the dirt like a drunken street fool. Original approach be damned. His mind blank and nose sore, possibly broken, Arthur had one word or phrase that she would allow before striking or yelling for help.

 “Colm O’ Driscoll.” He breathed, wiping his red-soaked nostril with the back of his wrist and then spat in the warm grass. Never breaking eye contact with her. “You know him?”

 Sloane’s mouth parted slightly, eyelids jumping open only a fraction. Disclosing the sinking of her chest and the air leaving her body of genuine dejection.

“You _do_ know him then?”

 The entire atmosphere shifted.  The expression of her body became caged, more aggressive. She took a step forward, her gaze shadowed and threatening. Arthur even backed away an inch or two.

  “Did he put you up to this?”

“God, no.” Arthur quickly corrected. “Colm and I go way back in the worst way possible. His boys seemed to have it out for _your_ boy. I mean seven against one? I know their type but your boy -  he was damn near slaughtered. Left him to suffer like they was holding a grudge.”

 

Sloane lowered her arms little by little and took a few paces back. Looking down at him in bewildered confusion, she pulled her brows to pinch her face.  Arthur still kept his hands out like he was calming a wild mustang and stood to his full height.

“Miss Fairfield-”

“I have nothing to say about that man, good day.”

  She spoke quickly, somehow the words spilling over the other in perfect coordination uneven to their speed. Slinging the bag back into her arms, Sloane walked away. Like nothing happened in accordance to her scowl.

Arthur sat dumbfounded similar to  a fish just beneath the surface of a frozen lake. Eyes darting back and forth, unsure what to do next. He watched her steps a few minutes and sniffed some of the blood back before wiping it away and spitting.

    “Nothing to say?” He muttered. Rising to his full height and marching on after her, Arthur called out.

 “Now, hold on there-”

“Anything involving that man leads to only misery.” She kept going, fully aware of his following presence. Back straight, arms tight around the bag she pressed on. Just needing to get around the corner.

  “I'd appreciate if you never approached me or my family again. Forget where my property is and our faces in town. I shall contact the law if needed, do you understand?” She didn't skip a beat, closing off the conversation before it began.

 Arthur's patience was running thin, he would have cared less about what their past dealings with Colm was at the start of this. All he worried about was the seventeen that lived on her property and the tongues they belonged to. Even if she was not one to use gossip as a pastime, evidence here suggesting she didn't care for _anyone's_ company, who's to say her family would be as tight-lipped? By now it was likely all of them knew the story of his mighty haul of O'Driscoll pelts and rescue of the boy.

Now it was principle. He didn't need her approval, just wanted her co-operation.

 “Now, listen here, _ma'am._ Do you really perceive me as the type to take being cast aside lightly? Do I look like a soft-skull  to you?”

 “Looks can be deceiving.” She replied without missing a beat.

Arthur felt a red hot flush on the tips of his ears pour out onto his cheekbones. He reached out to stop her by the arm but ceased. _Calm down_ , he chided himself while falling behind her _walk-a-thon_ pace.

 “What gives you the right to deny me information I should have anyhow?”

She stopped to Arthur's satisfaction. Sloane peered over her shoulder then slowly turned around. Her eyes wide enough to see the white of them. A furrowed burow to convey her distaste.

  “You're use to men falling in line. Fawning over your command like your some precious thing? Much indeed, I ain't one your lakeys or whipping boy brothers under your _'protection’_ , Miss.”

Sloane's mouth fell open. The gall, the very nerve of him to say such a thing-  “ _That is completely_ \- that has nothing to do with our current predicament.”

Arthur chuckled, planting his hands on his hips. He leaned forward in a near condescending manner. The meer tenor of his voice would be teasing if it weren't for the hint blood on his face. It smeared as he sniffed and rubbed some of it off his sleeve.   “I don't know about that…”

“It doesn't!”

“How so?”

Sloane was absolutely so- _so_ appalled, so flabbergasted that she struggled to find an answer. It was a _chore_ to reply to a mere stranger she had just met!

She huffed and finally dropped the heavy sack with a loud _thud._

   “You're saying that I should simply yield and tell you everything there is I know simply because you _think_ you _deserve_ it? Insulting me in doing so? Private information that is exclusive for a reason, by common sense,  is not revealed to strangers. Regardless of sex or justification in your deeds, I owe you nothing. Just who do you think-” she realized she was starting to work herself up and took a moment to breathe.   The smugness on his face turning her more malicious by the second. He was trying to rile her up and she lost her cool so quickly.

 

“You think a few supercilious assumptions to gode me will get you what you want?”

 

     “Absolutely.”

 

 She marched up back to him, fists clenched and burlap sack forgotten. For a while, she just glared and him and breathed deeply, the little devil in her stomach rearing its head and tugging on its chains to be set free after a long wait. She refused to cut it free, to let that demon control after so many years of reigning it in. Ernest had pushed her limits when he let Clovis go out, and yes she rose her voice over him immensely but there was hardly any action. This man- this _Arthur_ , was stoking a fire that he wasn't too familiar with.

 “How so?” She remarked, downright spat at him. Mimicking his earlier taunt in a grave manner. He seemed thrilled for the challenge,  to her dismay.

   “Because I stuck my neck out for your baby brother and could have been killed because of it. Now, make no mistake Miss Fairfield, I got people too. People I've been with a long time that need to be taken care of to the same degree as those under your wing. So if we're on common ground with the same enemy, we should share that information. If not, I need to know that the assistance I gave to your brother stays between you and me.”

“I didn't ask you to kill those men.” She said in a quieter, bitter tone. Dripping with resentment. “ _No one_ asked you to do anything.”

He nodded. “I know you didn't, but like it or not it happened. If you're not gonna tell me what has you involved with Colm that's fine. That is your choice and I'll respect it. However,” His sudden step towards her was immediate, now an arm's length. She didn't seem afraid of the closeness, he reckoned that she easily had been in these situations before. Something beneath the surface daunted her and he debated on whether or not to reach those limits. To see a beast awaken and strike.

   “My name comes out of your mouth or your little family, you're finished. Like I warned your brother, you double cross me and sell me out I will not hesitate to find you. And believe me, miss” he looked down at her and smiled with a slight gesture of his head. “That would be unkind. A dead prized breed would be the least of your worries.”

 

The moment he stepped up, Sloane just about grabbed his throat right there. Something red, ugly and vengeful sprung up in her stomach. It swerved and sought out for blood. It made her hands shake and head swimmy. This absolute rage chokes all fear with thorny pikes.  “Are you threatening me?”

 From what Arthur perceived in his assumptions, this woman was holding back. Her skin looked flushed underneath her collar, her fingertips shaking and dug into her palm to cease action. He almost wanted her to strike, to see what she really was capable of.

 “Now, that’s a nasty word. I'd say it's more like a hardened contingency, should things go awry between us. I’d hate to _threaten_ a lady.” He nodded with some of that previous charm and just like the night he first saw her, she didn't like it one bit.  Half of her bottom lip disappeared between the cages of her teeth while she released a sharp breath from her nose. She stared at him with a wide, angry glare. Those grey eyes, a slight wrinkle of time blankets under her bottom-lid.

 The sun that beat ruthlessly did not showcase or brighten the color in them, but bore witness of a storm. No matter the sunny sky. At his warning, his grand commination, commanded the black abyss of her pupils to sink and zero in on him. Red and exhaustion heavied the corners where there should be white. Glossy, but not from sadness or grief but from long hours and this new danger dancing around her cubs sleeping soundly in their cave. This was someone that was familiar with his lot, which was not uncommon in his work but did not show the same degree. People could smell his roguish behavior a mile away and did not spare him a second glance.

 No, his fascination was something else. Conjured and cultivated from her statement, the way she carried herself in the face of precariousness. They had lived, one time or another, in a like mind.  Experienced the ruthlessness of world that didn’t want either of them to come out on top. The blood blooming from her bottom lip, once released out of teeth, only emphasized the realness and rise of her indomitable nature.

  “To be abundantly clear, _sir,”_ She doesn't move but somehow her voice carries through him despite the low volume. “You cross _my_ family in this manner of handling your alleged injustices,”

It showed. Remnants of a life lived in brutality scrubbed clean for window shoppers.

Something that slept, malnourished, kept tightly locked away jostled heavily in his chest. It was uncomfortable, grotesque. Convincing him _not_ to throw his hands up in irritation and walk away, but ached to see what would happen next. To provoke and feast hungrily on the prize. Interchangeable to the one that called him to the life of an outlaw, whispers of promise echoed in his mind.

“I too, can be just as unkind.”

The line in the sand drawn, toe-to-toe, an enemy should have been made in her. The man was almost stunned to silence notwithstanding his cool exterior of a glazed smirk. Unlike his threat, hers was a promise. An oath sworn in blood. His fingers extended outward at his sides to rid of the pins and needles coursing through him, the tiny hairs on his neck and arms shivered then stood upward. To challenge someone bold enough to return the call for inflicted retribution. Unafraid to die.

  Finally, he laughs. Smooth, low and thick. It covers his surprise and interest with ease. Arthur leaned in over her height, hands on hips. The downright childish way the gesture made her obviously feel only heightened his ego. Now for the second time. Tritely setting aside his racing thoughts, he replied.

   _“Believe me,_ Miss Fairfield. I'd like to see that _.”_

-’-’-’-’-’-

 

  Amos had seen her come out from behind the general store once he and Connor exited the Doctor’s. Her face was flushed behind freckles, her fists tight and steps heavy. He jumped out of his skin when she saw the two boys and charged towards them. A wrinkled bag of supplies swing harshly in every step. Every Fairfield sibling knew that look. A bad deal, an insulting exchange, it didn't matter.

  “What’s wrong with Nanna?” Connor chipped up to him, wiggling his tiny hand while holding Amos’.

 Amos cleared his throat and leaned towards him, right before she approached them. “Best not to ask, little man.”

 “We're leaving.” Was all she said, not even giving them a second glance before stomping away to the cart.

  The two miss-matched boys looked at each other then solidified a timid “Yes, ma'am.” Following after her like ducklings in a pond.

 

 Amos looked back as they walked, greatly to find the source of her instant bad mood. A man emerged from around the building, chuckling with a light shake of his head as if he made an inside joke. He dusted off his hat and placed it back on his head, his grinning eyes set on Sloane. An older man that slept soundly in front of the gave the other a double-take. He too, watched Sloane stomp away then turned to the man.

 

“ _What in the-”_

 

 _“Ah, don’t ask, parasite.”_ He chuckled in good nature then joined him on the bench.

   Amos looked to his oldest sister, at a loss. Her loose bun bounced with her flyaway curls. She was so much smaller than he was, but he would dare not cross her. _The man in the blue shirt_ , Amos noted. That _man_ seemed to have set her off so easily. He knew better than to ask if she did not tell.

 

_-’-’-’-’-’-_

 

Immediately upon arrival, Sloane had retreated to her office and locked the door behind her. She didn’t slam it, but the whole house already knew something beckoned her anger. Moving so quickly, that she had knocked over an end table near the window. Her hand shook as she covered her mouth to refuse the string of curses she absolutely wanted to scream out. She breathed quickly in and out, palms sliding up to press against her hairline in order to calm the ever raging storm galloping inside.

 

_Who was he to threaten like some common foppish-_

 

_How could he look her in the eye and-_

 

 _Just_ **_who_ ** _did he think-_

 An ocean of crashing profanity flew around her head as she paced the carpets. Every corner of her nook she usually found solace in became dirty and sullied by pure, unbridled fury. A kind of hate that she had not felt in a long while. The kind that _hurt_ and stayed and seethed. The very indication he made against her family made her want to tear him down where he stood. They kept to themselves and let no one in. No one should have been able to touch them, to damage what they all worked so hard to maintain. After what all of them had to do, to sacrifice- in a moment’s notice - the thought of it being taken away killed any prideful stance she could take. Pride be damned, it was about protection.  

 

 A slap in the face would have been easier to process - then a realization finally calmed her tremors.

  Maybe this is what he wanted?

 

  A loose, vague understanding made, leave her crazy with worry. Sloane had left him standing there, that _Goddamn_ smirk still apparent on his face. That light curl of his lip, then an open smile. His teeth lined up perfectly in a set of unspoiled whites. She at least hoped he would have rotten teeth like a dirty old prospector. By God, he even _laughed_ at her like she was some sort of desperate female ridden with hysteria. It was possible he was _still_ grinning like a fox now.

 

 As she breathed and listened to Ingrid’s distant, diligent work in the kitchens, she regained her right mind. Calmed, as she thought this all through. A statement was made.  Meaning two probable causes; either he was trying to get a rise out of her with a bluff, or he actually had the intention of seeing his threats through. To take everything from her.

 

 _No_ , she quickly corrected herself and stopped her incessant pacing. Scolding herself to rationalize the whole ordeal. She hated to give him the benefit of the doubt, but still sat and organized her thoughts.

 

He _did_ save Clovis, seemingly out of a sheer whim however there was no way of knowing. She would not fear what didn’t exist.  Regarding Clovis’ admiration of him, he didn’t treat him with cruelty or act though he was expecting some sort of payment for his deed. He just brought him home. Safe and sound, no charge. A smile, and a gentle;

 

_“Goodnight, Miss Fairfield.”_

 

 This time, entirely different given the previous encounter.

Her lips folded inward on top of the other, fighting the urge to divulge in her nasty habit of biting her nails again. Or worse, a bloody cigarette. How could she possibly know in the first place if he was a threat or not? He wasn’t supposed to come back. The story ends there. Heroic cowboy saves helpless boy and leaves in the night as mysteriously as he came. Done deal, back to work.  Not return and threaten then have the gall to tease her in the same bout. How was it the same man?

 

   _No man,_ talked to her like that. Turning and twisting her like she was some toy. Many have tried but next to none succeeded anymore. She had gotten use to them not trying at all. They often ended up being the ones getting upset and wildly jab an accusing finger at her. Unlike them - unlike Ernest - _he_ didn’t back down. _He_ ended up tricking her into being the irrational one. To stomp her feet and demand to be the victor. Her stomach sent waves of discomfort up her spine. She prided herself being the bigger person but he demolished those preconceived thoughts in seconds.

 

And what did he do afterwards? _Smile. Proudly._

 

Her shallow cheeks radiated heat. Indeed;

 

_What an embarrassment._

 

 Three gentle knocks interrupted her professional pity party. Mili’s voice cut through the door into the jilted air her sister had created.

  “Sloane,” she called politely, waited for a reply and then responded. “Barak returned with a deer that needs dressing.”

 

Often, Millicent's voice wasn't something Sloane was too keen on hearing. They didn’t disagree on a lot, but sooner or later something spiraled into a calm, low-toned argument. And often, if drifted around the subject of high society and propriety.

 

“Can he not do it?” Sloane bit, unintentionally barking some of her frustration towards the woman.

 

 Milli didn’t question it, embarrassing Sloane more.

   “It’s supposed to be cold tonight, he’s taking care of chopping up firewood.”

 

The eldest sister leaned her head back and squeezed her face in a moment of frustration, though her voice was calm when she accepted. The other men under her employment were to attend to the horses and cattle this afternoon. That alone after working the fields was hard work.         

 “I’ll be right there.”

 

 Once she heard Millicent’s steps fade into the recesses of the house, Sloane quietly fled to her room to change. Ready to forget her troubles elbow deep in guts and vital organs of an already dead victim. If anything, it would get her mind off things.

 

 For once, she didn’t mind the work.

 

_-’-’-’-’-’-_

 

At first, he wanted to forget today ever happened.

 

After reuniting with uncle, Arthur sat with him a while pretending to listen to his ridiculous tales. He asked about the woman’s disagreement with but rolled off the conversation back to Uncle’s stories. He tried to listen, really he did. But the whole situation with the freckled woman, with an early morning already and bloody nose, had him a bit fuzzy when listening the old man.

 

 He chuckled and closed his eyes, surprised she took the bait.

 

HIs blurred rest was interrupted by Mary-Beth’s sweet prodding. Her voice was giddy like a child, going about a tip

 

_A train laden with baggage-_

 

 _Rich, unsuspecting folks,_ going off to vacation in Brazil. Arthur _loved_ that. An easy take, to be sure.

 

Then, he witnessed Tilly and Karen’s troubles. A moment of giddy-ness short lived.

 “That,” Mary-Beth gasped as Tilly was knocked into the side of a building by a man, a stranger. “Does not look ideal.”

Arthur’s eyes sparked, rising from his seat instantly.

  _“Excuse me.”_

Men were awful creatures. Preying on the smaller fish till the bigger ones come. He marched up the Inn’s steps after dealing with Tilly’s problem with a man that had her by the throat. Arthur barked at Uncle to take care of her then swung open the hotel door. A satisfying crack hitting the wall next to him

 

He didn’t reply to the hotel manager as he marched up the steps. He could already hear the man Karen had taken into the hotel yelling at the top of his lungs. Why wasn’t anyone going up to check on her after all this commotion.

    “ _Get off of me!”_ Her voice screeched from behind the door as a hearty slap of a fist being thrown followed. Arthur instantly picked up his pace.

  “ _I’m getting what I paid for_.”

_“No!”_

   His heart removed a beat once he kicked in the door and saw her crawling away from the bastard, who was already undressed down to his dirty underclothes

    “Get out of here buddy, I paid!”

 If felt good to feel that man’s teeth pull loose as Arthur slammed the scum’s head into the fire place.

  “Ain’t paid to hit her, you _Goddamn animal._ ”

   It hurt worse seeing Karen knocked down and try to crawl to safety than that pathetic man's fists. He made sure to repay the man his violence ten-fold.

He sent the girls back with Uncle and took off after his new _buddy._ Suffice to say, he was more than irritable. After everything calmed down, including the man that _thought_ that he recognized them from Blackwater, he ended up riding back to camp alone.

Arthur sighed, thinking over the shit-show of a day this was. Thank God, it was over. All they were supposed to do was scope out the scene, sniff around for a tip and keep their heads down. Everytime Arthur went into any town, things always seemed to escalated from bad to worse.

 It wasn't supposed to occur, running into the Fairfield woman again. He reached up and touched his sore nose on instinct, and slowed his steed. Maybe he was a bit too rough with her. Rough with his accusations, but at the time in his head it seemed to be the only way to let her _know_ the gravity of the situation. Though her words were little and fierce, she left him somehow unsettled.  

That burning, uncomfortable feeling grew sharp when she stood up to him. She smelled of lye soap and old pennies. A faint hint of an earthy smell from her hair tumbled in also. Tea, maybe. Some of the women he traveled with would say Black Tea was good for a woman’s hair. Or was it Rosemary? An odd, conflicting concoction that fit completely. He groaned inwardly, thinking of that damn smile he just couldn’t put away. Why on earth was he so lost for words and could nothing but grin at her like an idiot?

It wasn’t like she was so attractive to tempt him. She had the pale face of a shut in and the temperament of an angry hundred year old school teacher. There were plenty of younger women that caught his eye that he found much more pleasant, both physically and in personality. However, he wasn’t one to pine so shrewdly after _any_ women these days. He learned that the hard way.

Even so, there was a quality and character in her he couldn’t dare miss. Nor was he foolish enough to disregard her spirit. Perhaps, he watched the blood line her lip from her own teeth biting it so hard a little too long. That much control from a person...he sure as Hell didn't know how to do that.   

  Arthur flexed his fingers over Tex’s reins, pins and needles pricking his senses again just like before. He wasn’t any better than those sons of bitches that were hittin’ up Karen and Tilly. Cornering a woman alone and isolated from public view. That kinda shit was beneath him.

He craned his neck and took a deep breath as Horseshoe Overlook was approaching. The man still had much to do before the day was done.

 

_-’-’-’-’-’-_

 

  _A knife. Blade at least four inches long, is to be buried into flesh and first remove the reproductive organs. Beginning with the back legs, move upward toward the pelvic bone. Make sure to peel back the skin and fur appropriately after making the first initial cut._

_Through the muscle layer, passed the organs  with a tight and steady hand._

Barak watched with a side eye between each split of wood. Taking deep, long breaths before his muscles twitched to raise the axe and bring it down with a low grunt. He took the end of his shirt and pated away the moistness from his eyes. The sun was starting to stretch and yawn

 

Her back was turned to him, obviously focused on her work. Shoulders uncharacteristically stressed upwards into her neck. Putting more force into harvesting a deer than necessary.

     “It’s already dead, miss.” Barak quietly offered and watched the slight pause in her work before continuing. “You’ll put a bad taste in the meat.”

Sloane took a moment and drug herself to reality, relaxing her posture. “You’re right, I’m sorry.”

     “Sorry?” Barak set up another rounded piece of wood on the chopping block. “Ain’t nothing to sorry for, miss. If anything, I should be apologizing for bringing game this late in the day before finishing my chores.” He raised his thick arms back, tightening his stomach and bringing the axe down. Successfully splitting another.

He breathed loud again, shaking out his palm and setting the blunt end of his axe to bury it in the block. “Everything alright?”

She continued her work, slithering the knife up the esophagus and neck. Blood splashed upwards after she made a mistake and drifted too far left. Now up to her elbows in the pungent liquid. _Now don’t go shaking like a leaf,_ she heard her father say.       “Just...distracted.”

 Barak nodded and pulled his mouth to the side. “I see.”

Sloane’s eyes narrowed when she struggled to pull downward an entrail. “As a child, I hated doing these.” She wriggled her fingers beneath the bloody organ, leaning forwards slightly and planted her feet. “I use to argue with my father that this wasn’t what I was supposed to do. That this was man’s work.” Her lips pursed together as she tried to give another hard tug, but nothing sprung from her effort. Too gentle.

  “Da’ would always look at me like I was _the_ dumbest person he’d ever come across.” She changed her voice then, attempting one that was gruffer, belonging more to her true heritage.    

  “ _Things like men and women don’t mean a hill o’ beans when_ ** _you-_** **_you are_** _about to die, Nannie. One day I won’t be here and there’s no guarantee a man will be there either.”_

      The man opposite from her listened intently. The traces of a smile ghosting his features while he set up another piece of wood.

     “Clearly,” She adjusted the stones holding up the back of the deer and tried to pull again. “Young as I was, I didn’t want to die. Afraid and it got me angry, so I learned. _Angry._  That’s all I do- Again and again I,” She stopped herself as she heard the crunch of wood behind her. Censoring all boastful and emotional speeches she shorted to provoke thought. The look on his face was telling enough.

 “It says it in Milli’s books- In mother’s books, the propriety and respectable qualities of a modern woman. A proper woman.” Sloane tugged again, this time with her whole body.

  “Yes ma,am.” He offered, another block. His tone not at all dismissive but held a willingness to listen. “They do say those things.”

She dug her toes into the dirt. “So it begs the question doesn’t it? The true role of one to the other.”

 Finally she gave a successful pull, blood disgorged over her apron like a carriage wheel spewing a puddle onto unsuspecting fabric. Sloane breathed out heavily, turning and holding the poor deer’s esophagus in her grip. Unfazed by the gore but more rather of her own troubled mind.

     “What is the true elucidation of men?”

Barak blinked and swallowed nervously. Caught off guard by the question entirely. His expression pinched, he pressed on. “Are you speaking of the nature, the role, or the comparisons?” Either way he wasn’t sure how to answer, especially towards such a violent scene.

“Yes.” She said seriously, casting aside the fleshly entrails to join the other discarded material. It was difficult to wipe the blood off her chin with her already had stained hands, deciding to use the inner part of her arm instead.  

He clears his throat, burying the axe into the stump below him. “Miss Fairfield I’m not the best person to ask such things. I’ve seen the ugliness of both.”

    She watched him reach down to collect the chopped remnants and stack them against the rack on the side of the house one by one. “That is exactly why I ask.” He wouldn’t cover and burn his answer in sugar. Never did.

The man gave her a curious eye and finished his work with a huff. “Well,” He started, drifting to where she stood and crossing to the opposite side of the dressing table. She continues her work.

      “It varies from man to man I suppose. My former employer often spoke of these things to me when I was a young boy. Although he wasn’t opposed to putting his wife and children under... _questionable_ action while nursing a drink. He saw me as a test subject I suppose. Taught me to read and write and think for myself. God only knows why. I never will.”

   He braced both hands flat against the wooden table and surveyed her work. There were mistakes, slices in mismatching spots, unlike her to lose such focus.  More than one way to skin a deer, he mused.

  “There are rules in books and then there are rules for people like us. You and I, Miss Fairfield, are from different stock from those in _'higher position in society’_. For some people that’s seen as something as unrespectable. Just like any man set up for an instant life of success or the one that must toil and work for his payoff. To ask the nature of men is to ask the nature of mankind. Including women like yourself and women like Miss Millicent. Varying from person to person.”

 She processed this long and hard. Feeling just as confused as when she first ask. She circles the knife around to cut the rest of the entrails free. Sloane gestures for him to pick up the carcass from stem to stern so she could fully empty it. He does so, his bulky form list the dead weight with ease. “So…” She speaks low, under the guts she catches into a closely knitted sack.

“So, simply put. We are ruled just as you are, by the function of two things. Two conflicting truths that must meet and draw a parlay:” He gently sets the deer back and gestures with his words. “What we _want_ to do and we _must_ do.”

  Her eyes narrow, scoffing as she ties off the sack off with string. “Surly, it cannot be that simple.”

 “Believe me, I thought so too.” He chuckled. “Sometimes, when you look for the complexities in things instead of seeing them for they truly are, it only muddies the waters worse than before. Leaving you more lost than you were.”

 

Barak’s words haunted her. Leaving her to want and seek for solutions. Exactly as he said, more confused than before.

She ended the conversation abruptly, shifting her feet and apologized for her lack of formality. She was his employer, not his friend and she told him as such. He laughed and dipped his head in respect. Agreeing with her, yet and the same time she knew he didn't. It made her feel welcome.

Ingrid had a full blown heart attack once she took in the mistress of the house in all her blood gory. The buxom woman swung open the back door upon seeing Sloane trying to shake of the deer's blood and walking up the steps.

_“Don't even think for a second you think you comin’ onto my nice clean floors lookin’ like the devil just got beaten from ya’!”_

  Ingrid sent the slightly younger woman to the wash bin out back where the other men cleansed themselves for supper. Sloane sighed and followed orders. Traveling to the opposite side of the the house in the back directed towards the open field. The sun began to dip over the vast horizon, painting the fields and cattle in the deep hue of dusk. It was crisper than day, smelling of cool dirt and grass. Far over the dip of the hill where the cattle and horses would graze, there was a road connecting to others in town. You could barely see people riding their way back home. Silhouettes of tiny, toy-like horseman riding off to the sunset for their loved ones.

    Sloane sat the wooden bucket down with a heavy sigh, it took plenty of time heaving it all the way to the outdoor faucet.  She knew the pattern. _One, two, pause for the third, then keep pumping for the rest._ Putting off getting the damn thing fixed was getting more and more irritating.

 Filling it halfway, Sloane looked at her surroundings. The majority of the family had already gone inside to help set up the table. She could hear Boone and his boys laughing and carrying on as they finished their work. It was a contagious sound. She closes her eyes, gently dropping to her knees and dipping her hands into the ice cold, crispy fresh water.

It fell runny down her arms. Heated skin jumped to instant contact. Almost spiritual as her muscles relaxed, the warm breeze chilling her skin to goosebumps. Clumps of dried blood liquefied and was dropped freely from her skin. Discoloring the grass.

    She removed her apron and used the back of it wipe down the smudges down her neck, hands and arms. Lastly, she splashed her face. Grateful morsels of cold bit at her hairline and down her ears. She breathed deeply as it rolled down her throat and behind her high neckline. Leaning back down and repeating the action a couple more times she suddenly felt and sharp pain throb from her lip. Suddenly, today’s ugly events rushed back.

_“Believe me, Miss Fairfield. I'd like to see that.”_

      She buried her face into the bucket to try and drown out her thoughts along with her beet red face. Especially since she would need to go back into town in a few days to receive the post. Shameful, her anger was. There wasn't a need to try to understand what was happening. There was only her duty, she would stay away, not engage leave all potential troubles and threats behind. That wasn't their life anymore. She'd keep the promises made, abandon her own selfish curiosity, keep the land alive by any means. Sloane could only hope that God could forgive her hateful thought and measures she might have to carry out in order to protect those she kept close.

 

 

 

_[Fairfield Ballad's/Measure of One's Character Playlist](https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PL2DsO61oyM5XJkhZqxdYnLAFgOqo1CuAg) _

 

_And now, a word from our sponser:[The plan](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yFAk__fafp0&t=7s)_


	8. Let The Dead Bury The Dead

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It is by affliction chiefly that the heart of man is purified, and that the thoughts are fixed on a better state.  
> -Dr. Samuel Johnson.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for your kind and wonderful comments! I LIVE to read all of your reactions!

  “I saw a huge bear. One of the biggest I ever saw.”

 

   Hosea hooked his underling into a hunt. Arthur was sure he struggled more than actually giving in to the request. Surely he couldn't leave Hosea all on his lonesome. He might have been young at heart but age would not leave him behind. It was dangerous, but it was wise hunt with someone more experienced, if this thing was so colossal. By all accounts, if he’d known better, he would have convinced him not to pursue.

 Then, the old coot convinced him to go on and get a new horse for the journey. Tex looked fondly to him, much like Boadicea used to, as Arthur removed his saddle. Patting his neck, Arthur assured there was no hard feelings. He was a creature of habit and didn't feel the need to swap horses.  Tex was no Boadicea, but he was reliable. Sturdy, however the mountains were hard on the young paint.

 Leaving the stables behind them, the two made their way up the Dakota river as planned. No predators, no lawman or O’Driscoll’s. It was peaceful. The light pine-soaked air, a steady pace, the sweet smelling wind hitting  face beneath his hat. Hosea’s still voice guiding him through the trees. It almost felt like old times. Hosea was calm and patient. Placing breadcrumbs to ease him into the career of an outlaw. He was glad and grateful for the mentorship. The voice of reason, the gentler hand when Dutch’s became too tight. That didn’t mean Hosea couldn’t call down the fires of Hell if he wished. Deep down, he was just as crooked as the rest of the gang and made no excuses for it.

It was nice to catch up. Going over what all has happened with someone so level-headed seemed to have put them both at ease. So much had happened so quickly that no one had time to process. The disaster at Blackwater, Dutch’s _‘plan’,_ John’s recovery, even their comrades recent pass. No one wanted to address them, especially Jenny’s, so they all seemed to have moved on quietly. Being bitter at John for ditching was one thing, but people - _good_ people died to be apart of their family while John Marston was off somewhere doing God knows what. Left his kid too.

 Hours later, once they looped around Moonstone Pond, it was already nightfall. Arthur was caught off guard with how much time had passed. Hosea set up camp in a small clearing while Arthur fetched for rabbits to cook. He felt his stomach growl while he retrieved a freshly skinned dinner. It was nice to have camp set up and ready for rest when he returned.

  “So,” Hosea drawled out, cutting his portion of rabbit meat into fine tethers while  chewing on a biscuit. “You ever tell Dutch about that job?”

Arthur sighed and turned the rabbit over the fire, pushing it further into the grill. “I didn’t see the need to. Ain’t nothing new, us filtering out O’Driscoll trash.”

 “I suppose,” Hosea nodded thoughtfully down to his food. “But it seems _they're_ filtering through us faster. We need to be careful. More so than before.”

Arthur knew what that meant. **_You_ ** _need to be careful, Arthur-_ but out of respect, Hosea chose his words carefully. It was easier in the old days, killin’ without thought. Since it was the enemy and a job needed to be done, He didn’t think twice about it.

   _I didn’t ask you to kill those men._

 She wasn’t wrong. He stepped into a situation he probably shouldn’t have, made a novel murder scene of scum who’s momma’s wouldn’t even miss them. It was a mistake from the beginning to think of that encounter because sure enough, his mind scrambled after those events. Her hushed anger and bloodshot eyes. The way her voice shifted and turned his gut. Distracting him for a moment, causing him to forget what he was doing in the first place. It’s nearly been a month since then and couldn’t seem to shake that feeling.

 “What about the boy?” The old man slightly shifted his thoughts. “You think he’ll say anything?”

Arthur snorted. “Nah, he seemed more than grateful for the assistance. Besides,” He  shook out his hand from getting too close to the scorching meat then reclined to his sleep roll. His mouth practically watered at the sight of the freshly cooked rabbit, unappealing as it looked.   

  “They might’ve had a run in with them a while back. The mother of the house seemed less than entertained at the thought of it. Seems unlikely that they've always lived clean. I imagine they tryin' to live straight while the boy was a bit more mischievous. He's adopted.” He chuckled and waved the cooked rabbit around to cool off. "They seemed scared enough," A lie, smoother than butter. "I doubt they'll say anything."

Hosea cocked his head to the side after taking a bite of his rabbit slice. “Good. You got paid decently, I suppose that’s all that matters. From what you’ve told me, I’m sure it’ll be fine. These people are no stranger to killing.”

  Arthur nodded and looked into the fire. “Yep.”

    Miss Fairfield’s bloody lip stuck too close to his mind. Her tiny fists shaking, the skin beneath her tightly buttoned high-collar flushed completely red. He poked and prodded her so much yet she stayed her hand. Words heavy though she said few of them. The fire flickered and snapped, pulling his head deeper into that strange event. She wasn’t at all bothered that he killed them, and she was aware of the danger he must’ve been. When he cornered she stood up to him as if she was ten feet taller than him. It bothered _him_ more that she seemed unfazed by his hinted life style. He barely had a reason to assume it, but if _she_ previously lived the same life, how did it lead to the one she’s got now? Dutch spoke of the gang living clean and free, a place where they can all live and prosper. Farmers, good people perhaps. But after all they had done, the constant and questionable grievances, the pain they had caused, that dream seemed so far away. Unreal, unattainable, unsafe.

 The same ideal Arthur threatened to take away from that woman didn’t scare her one bit. More than anything thing, this left him troubled.

“Something to think about, son?”

 Arthur finally lifted his head and realized his food was becoming a bit too cooled off and quickly took a large bite right off the stick. “Nothing much, really.” He said through a mouthful. "Just tired, I guess."

“You _look_ tired.” Hosea commented, shaking out his finished dinner napkin then stuffing it inside his jacket pocket. “Dutch shouldn’t have you stretched so thin. I'm surprised you haven't as many greys on your head as I.”

“ _Nah_ ,” The younger man bit into chill meat yet again. “It ain’t nothing like that, I don't mind the work."

  Hosea nodded again, then slapped his hands on his knees and forced himself to stand with a long groan. "Well, you know you can ask me for help anytime." He stretched, folded up his chair and set if off to the side.

 He shouldn't ask, Arthur knew that. It was on his mind constantly. After writing in his journal every night, before his head hits the pillow, he dwells on it. A life that was long gone, what he had chosen _this_ over _that_ . Mary’s face stains his memory like an ugly, swollen tumor. It burns and stings and remains permanent. The utter cancerous betrayal of his own heart cursed his actions. Blood on his hands in his younger days was easier to bare. The killing seemed like a necessary evil. Sins of his past rose from shadows on aanights like these, his now matured mind damn-near _worried_ for his soul. But that was impossible, it had to be. He had given up so much for the ‘ _greater good’,_ the so called _‘American dream’._ Dutch preached about freedom, but how long till the cost of that freedom repaid its weight in red? He knew it, Hosea knew it, the whole gang knew their crimes couldn’t go unpunished. If it led to the dream eventually, would it even be worth it?  The freedoms they stole from others, beating people dry then moving on to the next town was draining. Never an end to the violence.

 "Hosea," he coughed and chewed on his lip for the correct way to word it. Not at all wanting to raise suspicion. How could he put it? Hosea waited patiently as the elder readied for bed. "Do you think Dutch's plans aligned with yours?"

Hosea paused momentarily then walked to his horse and unbundled a blanket. "How do you mean?"

 Arthur visibly struggled, stringing together bits of his convictions.  "When you started the life, did you picture yourself where you are now? Did you want differently? The way things have gone lately...I’m..." His brow knitted together and scoffed. “I don’t know what I’m trying to say.”

The older man across from him didn’t flinch like Arthur thought he would. He definitely took his time in answering. He took a chance, trusting Hosea with an unyielding confidence. He wasn’t the type to sell him out so easily. It was clear he had been asked this before. The fire had started to died down, Hosea grabbed a stick nearby and began prodding it back to life.

 “Two decades.” Hosea said evenly. “Two decades I’ve thought about that question. Dutch has delivered before and it sated me for a time. I saw the fruits of our labor grow, then shrivel up at an instant. But recently...something has changed. Bess and I have - _had,_ this conversation often. We never discussed it front of the others. When a slew of us would die and then new faces built us back up in numbers, I think it scared her. She gave up a lot for me and believed in Dutch, but not as much as I did. She believed in our freedom more than him. We learned that we couldn’t have both, at least for now even as we got up there in age. When she died, I felt like I owed it to her to see this through, to myself. I was always scum, from birth I knew what I was, but Bess-” It still hurt. The subtle dip in his words stopped him for a moment to gather himself. Arthur could empathize. He’d never been married, but he sure knew loss like an old friend.

“Bess was the best part of me. Living proof of the good that I knew deep down still existed. I couldn’t believe she would have me. After all that I am, was and remained to be- she stayed.” He pushed ,after clearing his throat and registering his normal voice again. “I know it’s tough now, son, a goddamn mess, but we have to trust that we’ll make it. Dutch and I disagree on a matter of things but we all want the same thing. A break from this. All we have is each other.”

Arthur nodded, relaxing into his mat. He could tell there was more to the story than that, but the blame of their violence was hitting too close to home for the both of them. The answer seemed all the more unclear and if it was possible, he became more restless. His mouth tightened together, stomach filled with dread.

“Did something happen, Arthur?” Hosea asks earnestly.

Arthur just smiles, waving his hand dismissively. “Just tired. Got me thinking all wishful I suppose.”

Hosea cracked his own grin, lightening the mood. “Ya’ ain’t going soft on us now, are you? I ain't in need of any yellow-belly when poaching a bear tomorrow.”

He chuckled and reclined back to look up at the stars. “Not a chance."

-`-`-`-

_Miss Fairfield,_

 

_Thank you so much for your gifts. I know your rules indicate that I keep Thomas in the dark about all this, and know that I have but I had no choice but to also let him know of your help. I know you are angry with me now and that is okay. But as the days go on, I cling to whatever good is left in this rotten world while I can, while Thomas can. He’s got so little time left and I wanted him to know that there are still people that have a soul. Call it selfish, but I needed to see the hope in his eyes again, and you’ve given that to me._

_I know what you will say, but I do wish you would come see us one last time as a family. Archie would love to see one of your boys again if it’s alright. He misses their company. Our door is always open, please do not hesitate._

 

_Forever grateful,_

_Edith._

 

Sloane’s hand tightly covered her mouth, a burning sensation overtaking her chest and eyes. Careful not to wake the house when her spine bent over her desk, she held in a long breath. The dreadful letter layed slack in her hand,felt as if any moment it would grow legs and claw her eyes out. When she struggled to breathe, she pressed the balls of her palms to her closed sockets and leaned her elbows into the desk. Counting the slow seconds moving by. Vision blacked out and the pressure on her eyes slowly calming her down.  That’s what she felt, dread. Guilt. Ever present, ever knowing and ever-growing. Thick like moss. It never registered that Thomas would die so soon.

They weren’t close. At least, that’s what she thought. When the Fairfield’s still went to church, Thomas bestowed many kind gestures to try and keep the family aligned with God’s will. Everyone else saw them as trashy, Thomas still treated them as if they were somthing special. Though his time as a preacher was short, her father took a shine to the young optimist. If it was one thing Neil Fairfield loved, it was philosophy. He’d invite the Downes’ over often, and then excuse Thomas, Walter, and himself to conversate on the porch. Boone and Russel would join them sometimes. Similar to a men’s parlor room, all cigar smoke and brandy. Didn’t matter if it was the cheap stuff. It annoyed Sloane, how her father would coddle Thomas because of his gentler nature and modest living. Perhaps he thought if he kept a Godly man close by it would somehow rub off some the family’s bad luck. Like a shiny new penny on a stye.

She saw him as pathetic, Neil saw Thomas for who he was. It was plausible to think she might have been envious of their friendship. Sloane wanted so badly  to confide in her, but it was too much later that she realized her father wanted a friend. Something she couldn’t be.

 A brief memory of guilt stabs her. He stopped by after her father’s demise. He encouraged her, offered his help. _She_ was young and angry with the world. Desperately wanting to be free of the nightmare disposed upon her. It all happened very fast.

_“I don’t need you, your pity, your sadness, your family or your God. Leave us alone and never come back!”_

 It didn’t matter how much Sloane tried, didn’t matter how many doctor’s visits or medical bills she paid for, malady cheated her good will and swallowed an innocent man’s life. All that effort gone to waste. Unable to make up for her past mistakes. Another father claimed by a painful death.

  By the tone of the letter, Edith wasn’t sticking around after his passing. What vague and little friendship she made with the Downes’, the loss was heavy. It was comforting that her poor family was able to help an even poorer one. Sloane immediately began writing furiously. There was strength in numbers, and the odds picking the Downes’ off one by one. 

It was so unfair. A man dedicated to God, forced to join him in the great kingdom as painful as it gets.

Sloane choked audibly, forcing away hot tears. Her hands shook too much to write anything tangible.

  _“Nanna,”_

The sound was soft, soothing, healing as it came behind the door.

Sloane breathed deeply and straightened herself. Wrenching away invisible wetness on her cheeks just in case. The voice was interchangeable between the two youngest in the family until she quickly opened the door to the youngest in his little nightshirt and oversized socks. His dark hair tickled in front of his brow. He stared sleepily up at her with goopy eyes begging for rest.

 “Connor,” She sighed. “It’s nearly eleven o’clock. You should be in bed. Did you wake Eleanor?”

 He shook his head wordlessly and rose his arms. A silent signal that he was ready to be carried off like a prince. She would’ve laughed under different circumstances. Thankful for the exchange making her chest a bit lighter.

   “Honey,” She whispered and fisted her hands to her hips. “You have to stop waking up in the middle of the night and wandering around. It’s not safe.”

“Mm-mm.” He mumbled bouncing wobbly on his toes to unsuccessfully reach her. His tiny legs shook with effort.

Sloane breathed deeply and gave in. It was her fault for retiring to her office without tucking him in, she supposed. His weight was comforting as she secured her arms around him and carried him. She made sure to squeeze him a couple times to make sure she surrounded him with warmth. Each step welcomed with a creak as she hobbled up the stairs. The little man dead weight in her arms, though he wasn’t asleep.

Once she made her way to his shared room across the upstairs hallway, she took extra care in not waking Dorothy and Eleanor as she laid him down at their side. Their oil lamp was still on at their bedside, giving the room a low glow. She frowned, appreciative that she could navigate but made a mental note to remind Eleanor her nightly task. It was dangerous to keep the thing on all night.

 “When do I get my own bed?” He muttered with closed eyes and relaxed back into the pillow. Eleanor jostled beside him, disturbed in her sleep.

“Hush now,” Sloane cooed barely above a whisper and stayed close as she covered him. “Soon.”

“But when?”

 “When you outgrow this one.”

He seemed pacified a little then opened his tiny eyes. “Will you sing?”

Sloane shook her head, tucking in the sheets around his little body. “No, dear.”

“A story?”

“No, dear.”

  His eyes could give the burliest of men the sinking feeling of devastation. Connor didn’t say it but she hadn’t offered a tale or a lullaby in over two weeks. Sloane felt the wormy hole of shame. Come to think of it, she hadn’t addressed any of her younger siblings of their much needed attention in a long while. They often invited her places, to their lessons, to eat lunch with them or skip rocks on their breaks. With the work toll these days, it was hard to keep her own rules and promises.

   She reached her gaze over his sleeping sisters and then kneeled at his bedside, then glanced over her shoulder. Having the strange sense of embarrassment at being discovered. “Harp of Dagda?”

His eyes lit up a moment but he shook his head.

 “John Henry?”

Again, another shake of his head, his smile wide.

  She pulled her lips to the side in thought. “Jackalope?”

Another quiet ‘no.

Sloane sighed, settling on her knees. Knowing which he wanted to hear. “I knew Ingrid should’ve never told you _that_ story. It’s too old for you.”

“Please?” He whispered, pulling at her sleeve. It was unavoidable. Sloane sighed and begrudgingly began.

 “Once, a long time ago, there was man. A warrior fallen amongst another world unexpectedly. He, his father and his band of the _Finnia_ were hunting when they fell upon something strange. Smoke and mist on the rivers.”

 She could see it. Those little eyes creating the scene, imagination running wild.

“ _Oisin,”_ She bellowed in her best, burliest old mother-tongue. “ _I fear there is a danger upon the horizon_.”

Connor giggled everytime.

“As his father commanded Oisin to lead their steeds forward, the steam swirled and took the form of a white horse. Out of the mist and rain withered air, the most beautiful woman with shining golden hair approached them atop a pristine mare. Floating like angels across the waters. A crown of priceless diamonds on her head and a silk gown signified a royalty of the likes no had ever seen. Not one of the men had ever beheld such a beauty.”

 As old as Sloane was, she was diverted when Ingrid first told this story long ago, back to the heart of a child. Ingrid’s accent was much thicker then and harder to understand, but Sloane in her adolescence held onto every word. Required this story at least once a week.

Digging into her memory, she conjured an old dialect she most likely got wrong.

  “ _I am Niamh, daughter of the Lord of the Sea, whom is king of_ _Tír na nÓg. A land far from here, across the rocks and waters.”_

“All of the men were far too scared to approach, afraid she was some sort of fairy temptress though her intentions were good. Even Oisin’s father was frightened, but Oisin himself was not. Bewitched, he instantly fell in love with the princess, and she to him.”

Connor adjusted himself, lying on his side with a hand tucked under his chin. Eyes wide.  Enraptured.

 _“My dear, lady-_ Oisin said - _I am Oisin, son of_ _Fionn Mac Cumhaill, leader of the Fianna. Have you come to see my land?”_

 _“Yes-_ Niamh replies _.”_

Sloane adjusted her heels and rested her elbows on the bed as she continued, propping her head up by her cheek. Connor scooted to make room for her arms. She leaned forward, getting more comfortable.

 “And so, the two traveled all over Connemara. Oisin amazed her with wonders of his world. But both knew that Niamh’s heart was bound to Tír na nÓg, you see, and she had to return. So, one day she said to Oisin:”

_“My dearest heart, will you not come to my land? You shall never go hungry, never grow old, and never want again. For all the pleasures of life remain intact forever to Tír na nÓg.”_

 “How could Oisin refuse such a sweet request?” Sloane asked in a voice much softer than was heard regularly.

“ _I will,_ He says. Bidding his earthly family and friends goodbye, he travels across the Plain of Honey to reach Niamh’s magical island. Just as promised, it is a paradise. Oisin met the king and his youthful subjects, and he was very happy to have Oisin and Niamh wed. In love and hopelessly happy. Years passed in a blink of an eye and Oisin became homesick of his kin and country. Seeing his despair, the king and princess eventually allowed him to leave but him never to set foot on Irish soil lest his loss of Tír na nÓg’s gifted power of eternal youth. He agrees and Niamh gives him a magical horse that could travel between realms. _”_

This part of the tale was always difficult to tell, but Connor’s eyes started to drift with the heavy spell of the story. Perhaps, he could not dwell on the story's emotional impact when being so sleepy.

“When Oisin returns to Ireland he does not recognize a soul. His original homeland laid in old forgotten ruins and he discovers that his father, his family, the Fianna, had long since been buried. Centuries passed in Ireland where in Tír na nÓg it was a mere sum of years.”

She notices his misty-eyed expression, knowing the story was coming to a close and looks to her with half-lidded eyes. Sloane smiles, a heart-wrenching fear swallows her as she reaches forward and weaves her fingers through his straight black hair. These were the moments she wanted to keep. Rough days making it all worth this little bit of contentment.

“On his way back to Niamh, Oisin discovers three men struggling rolling a large boulder across the road, near the coast of his forgotten home. He offers a sad hand, still dwelling on the family whom he shall never see again. In his despair he slips off his horse on accident and falls to the soil.” he lowers her voice even more once his eyelids are so close to meeting that she begins to rise up off her knees. Still gently roaming her fingers through his hair.

“The young man immediately wrinkles with age, catching up with the three-hundred years that had passed, his horse disappearing without a trace after his promise had been broken. His back bends over his knees and every hair falls from his head to a white patch on the ground.

_He cries out for his lost love, and then too passes away with a broken heart.  Niamh’s horse comes back to her, and she too, cries for her husband. Forever lost."_

With that morbid ending Connor’s chest rises and falls with the motions of a deep sleep. The story that originally began to cheer her up left her melancholy and sad. She remembers wishing for a happy ending as a little girl.

Sloane reaches for the oil lamp and turns it off, extending to her full height she begins to exit the room.

 “ _Nanna_?”

Sloane stops, and turns back to the dark room. The moon giving the only source of light to see her children. “Yes?”

“Does Oisin go to Heaven?”

She nods, unable to speak. What an awful thing, for a person so young already familiar with death and its consequences.

“Does Niamh meet him there?”

  She is unsure how she manages it, the words of lies to one so small and intelligent. One day he would discover the original ending to the story, disappointed in her lies. Now, however, he deserved stories of heroes, the happy ending that seems too far to reach as adults. She could not give him much, but she was happy to give him this.

Sloane opens the door and steps out. “Of course. She rescues him and returns to Tír na nÓg. Forever young and happy.”

 Satisfied, Connor nods and finally drifts of to a deep slumber while Sloane pulls the door to. Her story finished, Sloane closes the door and makes her way downstairs quietly. Must’ve been passed midnight.

It was heavy, this weight of it all. Unshakable. She didn’t like to talk like this. To think these dreadful thoughts. She did not like wallowing.

Sloane decided that she herself needed to turn in for the night. She then hobbles to the kitchen, not at all surprised to find Earnie sitting and staring blankly at his glass filled with whiskey. He rose his head to meet her eyes but he was far too tired to be surprised himself. Normally, Sloane forbade that any man or woman drank on her property. Especially inside the house..

  She says nothing and sits next to him under the old oak table. Many moments passed, and she motions for him to pass the drink. His brow widens in surprise but she takes a sip of the bitter, unlawful flavor and squeenches her face in disgust.

“It doesn’t go down easy.” He says.

“No, it does not.”

Earnest’s mouth pops up one side and leans back to his chair, his lanky hands meet together to fold over the other.

Sloane looked to her slightly younger brother. Not by many years, but she could trust no one more. She took note of his thick black hair growing over his eyes and ears. A shadow of a beard stubble his jaw. Making sure to remind him later to go to the town’s barber. Maybe some fresh clothes. Now was not the time to mention such insignificant things. Being so calculated at a time like this seemed to be a curse.

“Sloane,” He breathed out, looking to his hands then out the window. They had become clammy, nervously twitching. “I’m...I’m... so sorry.”

She blinked, turning the glass over in her hands, for a moment unsure of what he could ever be sorry for.

“I was just trying to help. I know Clovis screws up alot and I know I should’ve never let him go or I should’ve went with him and- and-” His muscles started to tense and his breathing was shaky. “I never imagined it would happen again. That what happened to - ”

“Stop.” Sloane ordered. Albeit a little too forcefully. “Stop it, Earnest.” It was long passed time of feeling guilty and yet here they were. Wallowing in places that needn’t be wallowed in. “It’s over and done with. You were giving him a chance to do the right thing. No matter how stupid. I’m sorry I was so angry with you, I had no right to corner you like that. I should have never said those awful things. So, please.” She reached over but kept her eyes of the scuff marks of the table as she grasped his hand. “Stop torturing yourself.” She never told him enough, how much she needed him. How much she needed his gentler hand when she clutched her family too tight or not tight enough.

 “You’re a good brother, Earnest.”  She clenched her fingers tighter around his hand.

 He let go of the tight air he was holding in, the shaking increased as he let out a muted, breathy sob from his mouth. He rose the hand she wasn’t holding and bit a knuckle between his teeth in attempt to stop himself. Sloane didn’t know how much he had been drinking. She looked down to the table and saw the cork with a screw still in it. Given that it was nearing March fifth and the quarter-empty contents of the brand new whiskey bottle, she reckoned it was a lot. She watched as fat droplets piddle over his jawline and fall from his chin to join the wetness of his shirt. He refused to face her and kept his body angled towards the window. He was ashamed. Ashamed to be sitting here, ashamed to weep after so long, ashamed that he let her down, ashamed of what he was.

  Her heart broke all over again.

 “I miss her, Sloane. I-” He struggled to say, slightly slurring his words under bubbled tears. “I miss them-I miss her-"

 She stood to her feet, her chair giving a slight groan from its legs meeting the floor. His chest heaved as she wrapped her arms around his head tightly. Her cheek and nose buried into his hair. He was slow to return the gesture but shakily reached up to loosely hold her shoulder. He felt feverish, his whole body wracked with gut wrenching sobs that held no sound.

Sloane stood like that for a long while til he calmed himself down. His eyes were sopping wet. "It's alright, now." She whispered and tugged him to him feet. "Lets get on to bed, Earnie. I know you haven't slept in days."

 He sniffed, his arm draped too heavy around her shoulders as she lead him. "Its fine, Nan. I don’t sleep most days."

  She hummed, straightening his wobbly legs with the toe of her boot. "I know. You're the slowest with your chores.”

 He chuckled bitterly through his sniffs and quiet cries.

  Sloane settled him into Clovis’ bed, noticing that he’d fallen unconscious long after they made up the stairs to his shared room with his brothers. Clovis was still downstairs, Oliver and Amos were sound asleep in their bunks. She was sure she had woken one of the two up when she dropped his lifeless body to his squeaky mattress. Hopefully Amos’ snores covered up the sound. Normally, Earnest slept in their parents old room in a bed not far from Walter. On nights like these, she preferred him to have more able company.

 She removed his shoes and covered him in a blanket. The scene too solemn to note unlike Connor’s story.

   It seemed like hours before she found her own bed. Changed in a fresh nightgown and re-braided her hair in the candlelight.  Her room was kept on the first floor, a later addition as a surprise birthday present. The whole thing was planned and orchestrated perfectly. Every year the family took a hunting trip up into the woods. Worked still needed to be done and every year each would swap places so the other could attend. She eventually complied and when she returned a brand new bedroom all to herself was waiting for her. To this day, she had no idea how they pulled it off. From expenses to time management. It was a wonder in itself.

  Sloane sighed as she relaxed into the sheets. Heavy, homemade quilts weighting her body down was damn near religious rejuvenation.

  As soon as she turned off her oil lamp, the room seemed colder. When she shared a room with her sisters it was somehow safer. More breathable. Now, it was just her and her thoughts until morning.

 Try as she might push it all away, ridiculous as it made her feel: she thought of him. The crickets and frogs chirping away outside taunted her. When all was quiet, when her brain couldn’t possibly hold anymore, that man - that _Arthur_ jumps forward in her mind. The last she saw of him was at the post office in Valentine eight days ago.Collecting her mail when she saw him hitch his horse to go inside as she was exiting.

 Sloane instantly turned her heel and went to the opposite exit, her heart beating against her rib cage. Desperately wanting to avoid him at all costs. It was a miracle he didn’t see her.

 _“I’m too old to get a job mister, way too old.”_ a sad voice said from Arthur’s direction. _“Can’t we be friends?”_

Her steps slowed and then stunted when she heard a begrudging _“Sure.”_

She hadn’t heard or seen him in weeks. Starting to question his existence at all. She peeked through the window and saw him talking with the single armed homeless veteran that wandered the streets for a bit of coin or kind words. Nobody ever talked to him, not even Sloane. It was common to see beggars, she hadn’t seen anyone talk to this one in a long while. She leaned in further behind the window, careful not to be seen.

 _“I’m so happy. I ain’t had a friend in a long, long time.”_ The homeless man, _Mickey,_ as he introduced himself, said with hopeful eyes. _“My last friend died, weren’t my fault. They said it was but they was wrong.”_ His serious words suddenly turned happy again, obviously crazed with flip-floppy emotions. _“It’s fun being with you, mister!”_ And then, another strange turn.

_“Can I hold you a second, mister? Can I?”_

 Arthur seemed to have gained a whole new composer. He was uncomfortable, awkward and somewhat...embarrassed? She wasn’t sure how to pinpoint as she observed from afar. It was overwhelmingly strange and surprising.  The gruff man threatening her weeks prior now dwindled to one of patience and understanding. She wasn’t at all expecting for him to accept.

  After looking over both of his shoulders, Arthur took a deep breath and threw up his hands in defeat. “ _Okay_ ,Just - quickly.” He hardly had time to elaborate before the one armed man held Arthur as tight as he could for a brief second.

Sloane’s brow drew together while her mouth fell open in shock. Arthur even patted his back! Not pushing away his forwardness.

As she lied curled up in her bed, she fought the smile that spread on her face. Sloane herself wouldn’t have the guts to let a homeless person do that, and before then she wouldn’t dare imagine a brute to offer that kindness.

“You’ve got sad eyes, mister.” The homeless man had said to the younger man. “Like you seen sad things. Remember with kindness."

 

Arthur didn’t say a word in return. No snarky remark, no insult or threat. Just a breath of truth made clear from a stranger.

  
_That._ That most of all was something she couldn’t shake. Somehow, in a strange sort of sense, it gave her peace.

 

 

_[Fairfield Ballad's/Measure of One's Character Playlist](https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PL2DsO61oyM5XJkhZqxdYnLAFgOqo1CuAg) _

 

_Stay tuned for a word from one of our[sponsers](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=T7NNmR-EX_Q)_


	9. Chuckaboo

* * *

_Carriages, waterfalls, shouts in canyons, water drops in caves, crunches of beaches, slurps of soup, cries of newborns, untuned piano keys, snap of neck on noose, horse hooves, arguments, a doctor’s words, drums, eight-count of a dance, stamping of feet in time, thunderous applause-_

 

Recalling song, sound and beat were the things that she cherished most. She found herself thinking she could hear while sleeping.  What an odd thing it was, to intake sense and yet not ingest any sound whilst in a dream. The sensation was there, the memory, the record, just not the vocal representation. For a while, the girl thought the sound was present. Faint murmurs or muted vibrations and echoes of a past being forgotten. It was years ago that her voice was erased completely of her growing adult mind. All sound gone just as her life had begun. 

 

 Moments passed incredulously slow at first. Every day seemed to dull itself and meet muffled whispers, every conversation becoming one so faint that she wasn’t sure if she was supposed to hear it or not. Melting to nothing.

 

 Then one day it just stopped. It was morning, waking up bright and early like any other day. She rubbed her eyes and shouted to her sister about breakfast. All sounds swallowed by an invisible hole. Her body started shaking, screams filled her lungs. At least she could feel the chords in her throat cut and stretch.  She had scratched and dug into her ears until they became bloody. Sloane had clung around her arms until Dorothy stopped clawing and grew tired of jolting. 

 

  A wild bounce awoke Dorothy, her eyes sprung open and she sat up in a panic. Penny, who was already dressed and jumping on her bed, was speaking. Dorothy could easily read her lips and barely make out the vibrations of the voice, but shook her head. Penny groaned, her shoulders back then obviously complaining then pointed to the blackboard at Dorothy’s nightstand. 

 

  Dorothy shook her head, lazily lifting her hands. 

  

   _Use your words._

 

 Penny’s face pinched inwards a moment then took a long pause before lifting her own tiny hands. 

 

  _No. Hard._

 

Penny's nose wrinkled when Dorothy snorted. 

 

  _Hard._

Penny repeated. 

 

 The elder sister took a deep breath and leaned up. _Selfish,_ she wanted to say. The little sister could understand signing for the most part, she was still very young and used to talking while Dorothy would patiently  _“listen”._ Connor could sign just fine and he could barely write his name. 

 

All of a sudden Penny's head snapped back to their bedroom door. Somebody was calling for her, perhaps for them both. 

 

 Penny nodded, then told Dorothy to hurry and get dressed. 

 

 Dorothy sighed, and put her feet flat on the floor. The cool wood snaked up her heels and released gooseflesh over her legs. For a moment she just stayed and felt everything. The two youngest were already running around, Mili possibly trying to wrangle them up for their morning lessons. Their little feet stomping about the house. Movement of their voices winding through the floorboards. A bird kept tapping on her window. Gusts of wind shaking the rusty old shutters on their house. The window was cracked, letting a warm breeze float in with the slight morning sun.

 

 A wide smile spreads across her face. It was finally time for her to go into town for a checkup. Sloane had insisted to call for the doctor but they needed to run some errands anyhow. Dorothy all but begged to go into actual public. It had been ages since shed anyone besides her family. This month's profits was good enough to buy a roast  

 

  Dorothy bounded down the stairs, Blackboard underneath her arm and a tiny bag full of chalk attached to her belt. Ingrid greeted her with freshly brewed tea and a kiss atop her head. They all had breakfast and the men soon excused themselves to the fields. She leaned over from her spot in the table while she chewed and looked into the living room. 

 

  Clovis was talking hobbling back to the worn couch with a basket of clean laundry underneath his arm. Not looking too pleased he was still assigned to do women’s work. He had recovered smoothly it seemed. The only checked him twice since his last visit. Bone and muscles were still tender in his leg but he nearly had free range of his arm. As Earnest addressed him to come to breakfast Clovis completely ignores him and continues folding. Earnest takes two steps forward, persisting. Clovis immediately begins a conversation with Ingrid who’s bringing out their food. 

 

 To her knowledge, Earnest and himself had a disagreement a week ago. Whatever it was they should have gotten over it by now. Surly, it wasn’t about Clovis’ accident. 

 

   She turned to a tap on her shoulder. Ingrid approached her with two squared packages wrapped in wax paper and tied up by string. Dorothy instantly took both by each hand. 

 

  Ingrid smiled and shook her head, hands twisting in sign.  _Brothers went out before I cooked. Be a dear?_  

 

  Dorothy remembered the days when she wasn’t allowed to go near the working men at all. Accidents happened and they preferred to keep the  _young ladies_ away from danger as much as possible. At least, that’s what Milli and Ingrid demanded toward’s Sloane. Those rules separated from the sole proprietor it seemed. Dorothy didn’t mind, now that she was becoming more of a woman. Though, some of the more patriarch models in her life would rather her be a child. 

  She nodded eagerly and finished her meal without haste, slinging her worn leather bag around her shoulder and rushed outside to join her older brothers. 

 

  

   “Hold him still.” 

 

 “I’m trying!” 

 

 Oliver pulled on the horse’s mane again, patting his painted neck. His voice pushed out low whispers. Amos stood hunched over beneath, the horse’s skinny ankle wedged in between his thighs. A dangerous spot. Eyes narrowed and focused, back already had a dull ache from the angle and the morning heat brought a glow to his brow. His hands were steady as his clipped and trimmed Chief's hoof carefully. Then later sanded and shaped the horse shoe to fit.

 

  Amos’ shoulder rested against the horse’s side. The poor things ribs protrudes outward when pressed. Chief's legs wobbled and jostled both of them nervously. He  _hated_ the nails. Always fighting every single time. 

 

 “Hold on, mister. It’s okay, Amos ain’t gonna hurt ya’. You don’t want you’re foot rotting off do you?” Oliver cooed, watching Chief's ears pull backward in disdain and snorted loudly. Pulling his head upward. 

   “Hey, now! Don’t you go sassin’ me, ungrateful ass.” He chuckled. Looking upward out of the barn after steadying the brute animal, he saw sweet Dotty walking through the field’s with two parcels stacked in her little hands. He grinned and waved with his free hand, welcoming her in. Amos glanced up and offered his own slight smile then went back to his work.

 

 _Well, aren't you a vision._ Oli signed, eyeing the parcels. Practically drooling at this point.  _You got something for us?\_

She smiled and trotted on to the wooden table right beside their metal working station. 

 

 “Ah, fantastic,” He said along with his hands. “I’m starving to death.” He pulled the horse towards Amos again when he began to struggle, sticking a hand out to still communicate. “We might be here for a little while. You mind doing me a favor?”

 

 She shook her head, very up to task after being cooped up in the house for days.

 

 Oliver held Chief’s head close, and depended on her lip reading so he could hold the horse in place. 

   “I’ve got some traps over by the river bank- “ He managed to wiggle out a hand to sign. “Fish and Rabbit.” Then quickly put his hand on back on Chief. “You don’t have to take them out- just check 'em then come straight back. ”

 

 “No detours.” Amos grumbled beneath. 

 

 “He’s right. No detours, Dotty.”

 

  Dorothy nodded, leaving her bag on the table. 

 

 “You got your call on you?” Amos lifted his gaze a moment so he could see before he returned down to his work.

 

  Dorothy’s eyes widened a moment then fished out of her bag a short-cut horn and expressed relief. It held a reddish hue and a freshly polished glow. Old but well taken care off. Walter had given it to her for her fourteenth birthday, stating that it was an old family heirloom made. He never told her the story behind it, just that it was passed down through generations. She was confused at first, still had her voice even if it was faint. However, the longer she went without talking and signed instead, the harder she found to form words. Not too long after she abandoned speech altogether. She looked at it fondly then hung it around her neck by the tiny rope strung through.

 

 “Alright, get on then. Hurry back.” Oliver waved.

 

 Amos watched her leave as quickly as she came. He tightened his lips together, then continued to nail the shoe in. “Think that’s wise?”

 

 Oliver waved off his brother’s paranoia. “Ah, she’s not helpless. It’s just a short walk. Now hurry up. I’m about to kill over with hunger.”

 

   -.-.-.-

 

 It had been a while since she went on a walk alone. She looked up and witnessed the sun creeping through the trees. Lashes fluttering with each peak of light that dwindled through the green leaves and warmed her face. She counted her steps, a habit she slowly accumulated over the years. It was nearly four-hundred steps from the metal shop to the river. Hardly any time to herself at all. Everyone was afraid to leave her alone for too long.

 

 She breathed in the fresh, hot summer morning air. Sweat started to curdle at the nape of her neck and under her arms. The crunch under her feet was proof enough that was making progress, along with the smell of wet soil and plant life all around her. She delightfully began to shape out the rest of her day. She would draw in the shop while the boys worked, a skill she had picked up from Walter at a young age, and help with whatever she could. She was also supposed to go to town with Sloane but it was postponed until this weekend when they made the bank deposits. Disappointed? Sure. Surprised? Not in the slightest. 

 

 It was made very clear that everyone still took her as the deaf girl that was too oblivious to see the horses break out of their gates.  _They_ all made it very clear, even her younger siblings. It wasn’t their fault, even though she didn’t know how to deal with herself at times. 

 

 When she pondered this, taking in all the nature around her as much as possible. She suddenly saw the little opening amongst the bushes and trees. A little bank of rushing water distantly between. She took thirty steps to the left of the opening first to check the rabbits. 

 

 Peeling back the leaves and bushels, her eyes widened. The wired cage Oli had made was completely ripped apart. Wires jumped back angrily every which way. Traces of blood wet the metals and dirt around it. She swallowed thickly, and took in her surroundings, eyes frantic as they attempted to look for the source then rushed to the bank.

 

 She walked at first, briskly but remained calm. 

 

Dorothy quickened her pace, kneeling to the ground once she came up the bank. She skimmed over Oliver’s usual spots. 

 

 Nothing in the first, the other two remained upstream. She discarded her socks and boots then lifted her skirts and tied them as well as she could at her hip. Her bloomers barely kissing the cold waters as she shrugged forward. Oliver said nothing about them being this far out into the bank. She had to stop and hike her skirts higher over her knees, catching her breath. Her hair threatened to block her vision while she reached down and brought up the wired trap from the rushing water.

 

 Again, nothing. 

 

 She dropped the cage with a dissatisfied huff and wiped her forehead with a wet wrist. Cool water rolls over her skin to refresh from the heat. She wondered if Oli at all had the intention to catch anything in these old things. She shook her head and made for the bank opening.

 

  The water pulled and pushed her back, toppling her balance more than once. By then she had pulled all of her hair from her face and secured it by a ribbon she kept in her pocket. Breathing heavily, she plopped down on her backside and let her feet dry a moment. 

 

 Shit. 

 

 The smell was strong, overpowering the mustiness of the river or the staunch soil. Her nose scrunched and she didn’t have to turn very far to see the source. Exactly six feet from her  resting spot was a tall, fat, fly-swarming pile of manure. Her whole face pinched, eyes stinging. For a sweet second, she thought nothing of it. Perhaps that’s why it took her so long to register a large moving, furry object moving grossly on all fours opposite of her. It's breathing was shallow, hurt and laboured, not imobile. Humidity squeezed around them. All sounds dull, muted, dead. Grass pulled under its massive weight. She had no time for stupor yet her body sat still. Her face grew red from the lack of air, sweat beaded harshly all over her body as the minutes crawled by. Every muscle in her throat clenched. All her bones sat rooted like stone wrapped in veins, tissue and skin. 

 _It’s hurt_ , she instantly thought once the shock passed and she could organize her thoughts. She had never seen one up close before, if anything her previous worry was big as a badger or fox breaking in.

 

 

 Her fists remained clenched at her knees, whole body shivering. Against her wishes, she let out a dreaded, exasperated sob. Quiet, controlled but threatened becoming louder as her panic rose. She wouldn’t taste proper, Dorothy silently prayed to the beast. She had bony hips and shoulders and all her back teeth were too large for her head, her stomach had fat in weird places. 

 

 Without thinking, she had a notion that she could run. If she got to her brothers in time that is. Her ankles cracked as she rose on her haunches. She squeezed her eyes shut, trying to keep her breathing steady. Surely, the thing should’ve attacked her by now. Hopefully the smell of the rabbit along with its own wounds and shit deffected its senses. The cub was most likely nearby. Maybe not, she hoped. A hand crept up and clutched around the base of her horn. She would call. Someone would come for her body after being torn it apart. It was nearly a fifteen minute walk back up the trail to the metal shop if she were going this slow the whole way. Unlikely, the chances of making it back. Uncanny, the thought of walking backwards this entire thing without the animal noticing. With every muscle clench and rocks fumbling around her feet. 

 

 

  Rough flesh scooped around her mouth. Her shoulders softly pulled to rest against a bulk chest. A man, too large to be Amos or Oli. His scent unfamiliar to her. Unable to curve her head around just to catch a glimpse of the stranger. The curve of her horn still risen. Her eyes stayed on the mountain lion. Shaky. The thing still hunched over licking his wounds and chomping on his fat rabbit meat. Breath fanned her ear, low vibrations beneath his rib cage tickling her vertebrae. 

 

  _I cannot hear you._

 

 She screamed it without a voice to convey, no matter if he was a threat or not. 

 

  The mountain lion moved, she did not lower her call, he did not let her go. His chest grew tense and he whispered to her again, pulling her a bit firmer and slowly stepped back. It was useless trying to signal him. Heat accumulated between her shoulder blades where their bodies met. He was damp and stunk of the woods. He took another step, bringing her with him. The hunter. She initially thought.  Either direction, she could not fight back.

 

_I can't hear you, I can't hear you, I can't hear you, I can't hear you, I can't-_

 

 The creature in front her reared its large head and growled. Blood seeped from its teeth. Puncture wounds all over its body, the ends of arrows broken into the skin. It turned its massive form, growling louder. 

 

 Dorothy took in a sharp breath through her nose, her hand shook as she brought it up to clasp around his bulky knuckles. It was gonna kill the both of them. She struggled against him, he muttered harsher words and brought his other hand to grip around her forearm. 

 

She was about to bite his fingers when the clawed monster launched himself forward. Its massive body shaking with the movement. The next few seconds were a blur. Falling on her backside, crying out in warped horror and pain, the movement of the earth beneath loud against her palms. Dorothy let out a small squeal as the stranger threw her into the dirt behind him. Skirts practically flew over her head as she landed as ungracefully as possible. She cursed in thought, wrestling the layers of fabric away and rested back on her elbows. 

 

  She should've ran when she saw the monster charge. Fight or flight should've kicked, but an overwhelming feeling of hopelessness commanded her to curl in the dirt. Her chest heaved, expecting to be alone, fingers shaking as they curled into tight, expectant fists.

 

 But the man was ready. He held a small axe, similar to the ones Dorothy noticed mounted on Amos' wall with beads intricately built around the hilt adorned with feathers. In the strangers' other was one of the largest hunting knives she'd ever seen. Taking in his complete form at an instant, she noticed his thick black hair going passed his wide set shoulders. Watching the violence about to unfold before her. He had a revolver at his hip but there wasn't time to aim. Though some men had a quick draw, he seemed more confident with close range weapons. 

 

 She wished she hadn't closed her eyes when the mountain lion got close enough to rise its meaty paw and gnashing teeth. Dorothy followed the drill, lie on your belly, lie very still if you're lucky enough to survive the first mauling and wait. She wanted to see, to witness what was going to happen and accept fate but it was all too much. She dove her head in the dirt, elbows nearly meeting as she covered herself. 

 

Darkness finished off all senses. The ground barely moved underneath the two beastly creatures. They fought for what seemed like hours, diminished within a few seconds. It was a sick feeling. Wait for the massive iron-like claws to pinch her stomach, empty her bowels, carve notches into her shoulders and so on. It might as well have been an eternity.

 

* * *

 

 

 

_PITCHED BATTLE LEAVES MANY DEAD._

* * *

 

_OUTLAWS SEND TRAIN ON DRIVERLESS JOURNEY._

* * *

 

_OWNED BY LEVITICUS CORNWALL_

 

  Walter Flynn sits on his porch, warmed coffee in his hand and a blanket on his legs despite the spitting heat. He could never get warm enough these days it seemed. His one unpatched eye skims over the grim robbery details. Most of the train operators survived, only the conductor and a few underlings passed away. Walter scoffed, letting his narrowed gaze drift over the article about a monkey slapping a police officer in the face at a nearby circus. He chuckled at that. 

 

  He didn’t look up as his youngest grandson strutted out, the screen door shutting with a soft snap behind him. Little shoes clambered on the hardwood floors in short  _clops_ until he found a spot by Walter to his left. On the side of his good eye. Spreading out a little, thoroughly used children’s book and a small notebook. Every page filled with crude drawings and copies from his favorite books. Walter smiled to himself, grateful more innocent traditions lasted in the family. Connor laid belly first on the loose wooden floorboards, wordlessly and immediately began to scribble away. The little guy would be six next month, Walt noted.

 

 Walter chuckled and shook his head and continued to read the headlines.  "Been busy, Connor?” 

 

 “Busy.” The little one replied simply. "I finished eating lunch."

  

 “Ah,” Walter nodded understandably. “Whatchya’ drawing there, boyo?”

 

  “Philbert and Hugo.” He says point his tiny, chubby fingers at the original pages of characters having some dispute over a pile of chalk. A hippo and an alligator in a pageboy hat.  It was silly really. 

 

  It reminded him of when each of the children were this little and the world was still romantic in their little, shining eyes. Even Jesus spoke on the importance of it, innocence and the protection of its curiosity. Walter’s buddies from the old days always said he had a soft spot for the little ones. It wasn’t a bad thing to protect childhood innocence. Not in the least. Leaves a small corner of their life that isn't molded by cruelty or selfish pig-headed decisions. 

 

 So when an outside force corners that ideal, it wasn’t natural for a part of that child to be exploited as a result. 

 

  The oldest living Fairfield may not have been able to remember things all too perfect. Mixed up all the names of his grandkids, mistaken places he had gone to and experiences. But he never once in his life mistook the sounds of horses grouped up like cattle ranchers headed down their road. Walter heard them before they rounded a corner and appeared in the distance. Kicking up dust like they were running from a great desert storm.

 

  “Where is your nanna now?” 

 

 The boy didn’t look up, didn’t see or hear the aggressive bunch headed down their way. Just drawing the day away. 

  “She said she had to get the post before the weekend. Took Mister Russel and Penny. .   with her this time. Miss Milli said I could come out here with you.” 

 

  He wished he could stand properly long enough to rush the little boy inside. “Well, that’s mighty nice of ya’, but could you go on inside and help Miss Ingrid now?”

 

 Connor’s little forehead scrunched with dismay but he followed without question when he finally saw the oncoming dustball of intruders. His eyes went wide as he gathered his drawings and writing utensils. Philburt and Hugo safely tucked inside of the notebook as he rushed inside. 

 

  Walter’s tone chipped towards a more serious tone. “Have Miss Ingrid shut all the windows and make the girls come in. Tell Earnie to head on to his perch.” he adjusted his sitting position, appearing taller without totally abandoning his relaxation. 

 

 “Yes sir!” He said as brave as he could. 

 

 Their colors proved true, Walter noticed. Green and ugly as all get out. Not like the pretty forests that surrounded their land to obstruct any public view. But moldy, stagnant water green. Puke. Their hoops and hollers cursed Walter’s mind to a series of pictures. Needlessly bloody over and over again. Gunpowder rubbed into wounds, houses and families torched to the ground. These big and  _‘tough_ ’ men that he, in another time, surrounded himself with. At most, he was disgusted with his own past seeing these men now. 

 

  In the corner of Walt’s eye, he saw Amos and Oli emerge from the shed and see the men coming. Walter waved. Doubling as a signal to hang back while “ _welcoming”_ their guests as they piled into his front yard like a herd of green pigs. He thankfully heard Ingrid and others slamming the shutters closed. Their voices hushed and frightened. By now, Milli was rushing the smaller children under the house. Keeping both their hands clamped over their tiny mouths. Walter straightened in his rugged old wheelchair, offering a smile.

 

 The head pig surprisingly was the first to appear and step forward. His grin was slimy as his suit. As rich and important-looking as it was, he could smell the cheapness from within. 

 

  “Walter Finnian Fairfield. My, oh my.” Genuinely surprised, the chuckle in his wheesley husky voice strained and giddy.

    “Took your legs this time didn’t? Shit, brother,” He pulled the reins on his horse till he stopped a few feet in front of the old chipped steps. “And I thought I was having a rough go at it. What has it been, six years? Such a short amount of time to be reduced to your condition. Your shot still good as it use to be?” 

 

 “It ain’t all that bad, get my meals brought to me. Have a pretty lady give me a bath. It’s all in good fun.”  Walter’s smile tightened, folding the newspaper into neat little folds and settling it gently on his lap. “How are ya’ these days, Colm?”

 

  “Oh, you know. Work these days ain’t so easy. Slim pickin’s, yes indeed. Ain't been slow, not even hibernatin'. Just empty or locked too tight. Law ain’t that scared of us no more, Walt.”

 

  "That so? Well, rest assured, I’m sorry to tell you there’s nothing out here. I’m sure you know, it ain’t so easy for us ‘neither.”    Walter’s voice remained cheery, like they retreated years ago on good terms.

 

  Colm laughed, his hands meeting together at his saddle’s hilt, nudging his horse closer. “Haven’t lost your sense of humor, have you? Maybe, I just wanted to see how my old protégé  was doing?” 

 

 “Former, protégé, if I remember correctly.” Walter rolled forward a few paces, his one good eye never leaving the barely younger man below.  “He’s been ill. Ain’t been much good to us in the state he’s in.”

 

 “Oh, that’s a shame.” Colm says with a knowing grin. An uneasy sight, cruel and filled with too many teeth. “He in the house?”

 

   “New York, with his sister.” Walter said, jarringly short. “A team of experts surrounding his poor ole’ needs. A pity, isn’t it? You know Clovis though, Colm. Always gettin’ out of working somehow.  Just a shame he’s not around to help. Business is tough after my ailments and all. You understand, I'm sure. Cattle going missing every now and again. Strange times we live.”

 

 The guns in all of Colm’s goons’ hands seemed far too shiny as Amos and Oliver peeked their heads out of the shed behind the gang. Walter’s hands clenched together, praying for them to keep their noses out of it. Colm stretched his around to see around the corners of the house, searching. 

 

  “ _Shame_.” He tutted, picking out something from his teeth with the back of his tongue. “How’s little Miss Jana Murdoc? Y'all's home has seen better days. She doing her job properly? ‘Cause it looks like she’s slacking.” 

 

 _Jana Murdoc_ , he thought.  _Sloane J. M. Fairfield_. She hadn’t been called as such in a long while. That name that no one spoken of in years. Attached to something too violent to speak of. Least to say, she did not care for it even though it was plain as day on her birth certificate. Walter noticed that familiar gleam in Colm’s eyes as he spoke it. A kind that stole innocence, that terrorized just for the hell of it. Money grubbing whore-mongers. The kind even the devil himself would steer clear of to avoid the stink. Too familiar, indeed.

 

 “Is there something I can do for ya’, Colm? Or is your mean-looking pocket-knobbers  just here to scare my gran-babies.” 

 

 “Jana in her office?” 

 

 “Sloane isn’t here.” Walter laughed in false good nature. Tight smile, quick to dismiss. “ She’s busy meeting with our partners. I’ll gladly pass on any message you got and I’m sure she’ll get back as soon as she is able.”

 

 Colm paused. Pursing his lips a moment. “Well that is not anything like I wanted to hear.” His men had their horses take a step forward, their fingers just barely above the triggers at the rifles and handguns in their laps. “Too busy to meet with her Uncle Colm?”

 

 “My guess is, she reckoned you would’ve learned the first time.”

 

  By the green man’s expression, he did not seem amused.

 

 Inside, Earnest laid in wait at his position on the top floor. His repeater tight in his hands, finger ghosting over the trigger. Breath leaving in short puffs. Both eyes open wide and focused on the main O'Driscoll. Below, Ingrid fashioned her own pistol hidden inside her skirt pocket so she might not scare the children. Like the old days, hiding knives in her socks and pistols in her knickers. Posted tight against the doorway. Clovis stayed by the window, barely peeking in between the slits of the shutters. His hands shaking and his body thrumming with a dull ache. He could not fight. Barely even able to hold a rifle without trembling under the weight. It wasn’t right that he shouldn’t be able to defend hit own lot. Much less protect himself. His siblings sat shaking under the house. 

 

 “Now is not the time to spout off, you old fart.” Clovis whispered angrily. “Old yammer is gonna get himself killed.”

 

  Ingrid about flung herself across the room to smack him if he didn’t get away from the window. She pressed her full cheek into the door, quinting as the hot sun bursts through the cracks. Sweat grew on her temple in fat beads.

 

  “She got lucky last time.” Colm growled beyond his grin, holding his chest like the old wound still ached. His eyes barely seeking the scar along his cheekbones and nose in his peripheral.  “‘Sides. I don’t see the harm in checking in on my former tenant. Heard she had a business opportunity that she passed up. Shame, really.” He gestured for his boys to hang back, his hat nearly flying off in the wind. “Do tell her I stopped by won’t you? Us paddy’s gotta stick together. Remind ourselves of who’s who, right?  _Right, Walter?_ Otherwise chaos would ensue. ”

 

  Walter nodded and took a slow sip of his coffee, now cold and bitter. 

 

 “Like I said, friend. She’s quite a busy woman. Whatever scheme you have to offer, I can assure you she’s got too much on her plate to be interested.”

 

 “I can remember a time when she was most definitely interested in my schemes. If you recall.”

 

 “I do recall.”

 

  The Fairfield's waited. All their hearts beat as one entity. A hivemind. Young and old alike. When the invading horde did not leave, when Colm slid off his horse with a long, grimy smile and slid over to the oldest remaining patriarch of their family.  All but Walter tensed at the sight. He was still, barely batting an eye while Colm trudged up their white-chipped steps to the porch. Ingrid stared at the gun unbuckled at Colm’s hip with worry. Clovis stood, strangely quiet and pupils shrunken. He could see his brothers in the distance starting to emerge from the shed, warily so. It was too familiar. This setting, the overwhelming threat. It reeked of an ugly slaughter. 

 

  “You’re plain dead north of your ears,  _Finnian_. I doubt I can depend on your memory to relay  a simple message for me. That stroke took more than your brains. Pardon me,  _strokes._ ” His greasy grey hair flopped under his just as slick looking hat. He approached the shaded porch. Leaned forward, dropping a knee to the wood in front of Walter.

   “Ain’t so high and mighty now that your skull doubles as a soup bowl, eh  _Finn?_ Too bad you passed that stuck-up way you lot are through your seed. Shit, you even got a woman running your affairs straight to hell. This ‘  _new age_ ’ bullshit is beneath you. Bitch can’t even keep her own inbred children in line. Don’t think anyone sees them squawking about? The disgusting, innate vermin that they are.” 

 

  Walter remained silent. Still as if he was carved from marble.

 

 Colm’s smirk widened, hand reaching out to grasp his quilt lying across Walter's lap with a calm grace. The fabric folding and wrinkling in Colm's spindly hand. “Oh, what? Nothing to say, now? Not only did she take your shitty land, your workers, your expenses, but your  _spirit_?” He chuckled.  “What, she take your cock off too?” 

 

 As his dirty lackeys laughed, Ingrid turned her head just slightly when she heard the pounding of feet down from upstairs. 

 

  “What do you say, boys? Shall we have a look-see at  _wrinkly_ ,  _wiggly_ old  _Walter_? See if his peckers still intact after the witch left the west?” 

 

  Earnest made sure swing open both the hardwood door and the shoddy screen in front of it like a bat out of hell. The snap of it all alarming them just as much as the long barrel he pointed right between Colm O’Driscoll’s wide set eyes. The men behind him, as well as the horses, startled to attention. Aiming their guns with clumsy precision, and shocked obscenities. His jaw set, muscles holding his face together tensing under the pressure. Earnest, in all his gangly glory, stood true. Shoulders raised, frenzied like a wild ape cornered. 

 

 The air felt thick. Solid enough to drag a butter knife through it. All Fairfield's positioned that watched, sat back in horror. Earnest's heart threatened to fractured his chest cavity. The very speed of it making him dizzy. Pounding in his ears, drawing blood from his freshly bitten nail beds. The barrel of his repeater barely inches from Colm's forehead. 

 

  Colm sat a few moments. A bloodthirsty glare. Eyeing the beastly scum who dare oppose him. Caught by surprise out of this welp!  He laughs, rocking back on his feet before the barrel touched his skin. 

 

  "Earnie." Colm greeted, a slow grin returning. “Finally grew some balls, did you?” 

 

 Walter squeezed his hands around his coffee mug as Earnest kept the weapon aimed. Colm rose inch by inch off his knees. Greasy smile, neat little tricks up his sleeve, a pose to shield his cowardice. 

 

 “You gonna use that?”

 

  But that was just it, he had no plan. No sense other than his natural instincts. He could be killing them, disturbing their little peace would be the least of their worries. Earnest knew damn well that he'd be getting a talking to later. However, he knew how Colm operated. First its with the open humiliation and badgering, then things would get physical. It always did. There wasn't a doubt in his mind about it. Walter would be lucky enough to survive. That slim chance that Colm would be fucking around and trying to scare them for no reason was too much of a risk to take. Hot air suffocated his lungs with each heavy breath. He made his choice and would see it through.

 

 “Of all the times to  _unyellow_ your belly-” He laughed so hard that he wheezed, slowly standing to his feet. “You sure picked the right setting to get some nerve.” His laughs staggered him down the steps. Bewildered and almost with a pleased look on his face. "Didn't save little ole' Colleen from the barrens? Did it now, Earnie?"

 

 Earnest took another heavy step forward, Walter unfazed to stop him. Fire in his eyes.  Barrel snugly right between Colm's hairy eyebrows.

 

Colm made a mocking  _'tut, tut'_ noise between his teeth, raising a signal to keep his men from shooting the whole place up.

 

  Slow seconds creeped by as the two glared the other down. One scowling while the other held a cross smile. Suddenly, Colm bursts at the seams. A hand on his chest, cheeks shining with greasy, flushed giggles. He stagger back, shaking his head in bewilderment. Angling his head back over to Walter, Colm's grin spread to his ears. 

“Got a fine family, Finnian. Very fine indeed.”

 Earnest knew.  Words made, actions so easily missed. Anyone could do nothing, Earnest Fairfield knew that so well. He couldn’t stand his ground worth shit. No opinion if he lived or died. No opinion on much really. Stuttering speech, shaking fingers, vomit firming his throat. Somehow, he’ll never understand when he later attempts to explain his actions now, his  _flight_ senses decided to recede and rot his fearful mind. It wasn’t bravery, it was in his agitation that he combined the two.  Perhaps that’s why he was such a good shot. From far away he could deal with the fight. Frozen in his hidden spot, he could take nearly any shot imaginable. Head on, however, when the knuckles are bared and bones crunched and broke up close, it made his skin crawl. He couldn’t respect men who were afraid to. Couldn’t excuse his sorry milksop way of living. No matter how he tried, that would never change. Afraid of the light as much as the dark.

 

 Colm left as fast as he came. “ _Tell her we’ll be in touch.”_ A final promise, then he was gone. No other word, just the yips and squalls of his posse on horseback, shrinking in the distance.

 

 Nothing was said. Earnest lowered his weapon, shaking like a leaf. Walter’s hands rung around his coffee cup. His brothers started charging ahead from the shack as fast as they could but Amos stopped, shouting that he was heading back to the forest to search for Dorothy.  Ingrid’s hollars could be heard, reaching those precious few that hid under the house. 

 

 “Are you out of your  _mind?!”_ Oli yelled towards Earnest as he approached. Walter shushed him and sternly moved him into the house to check on the ladies and young men inside.

 

 Earnest stayed rooted, jaw set tight. Rifle slacked low in his arms. He felt a tight grip on his arm from below. Comforting, solid despite how withered it was. No words shared. Not that it could change anything.

 

* * *

 

  When her eyes opened finally, Dorothy stared at the man's back in revelation. She was not dead and neither was he.  He was hunched over the dead wildcat, blood spouting down his dark arms. Not tanned, dark. His shoulders moved under his loose blue shirt, sweat soaked it in deeply colored blotches.  Labored breathing, black hair a tangled mess on his head. The hatchet still held tightly in his fist. 

 

 She gaped in awe. Seeing her fair share of amazing things, Dorothy tried not to seem too surprised. He  _was_ a hunter, seemingly, just doing what hunters do. Big, burly and scarier than the animal he just faced.

 

 She had read in the paper that a clean mountain lion skin fetched a pretty penny. Mr. Boone had said a couple times as such come to think of it. She tightened her lips and tried to slide up to compose herself. He sensed this and turned around quick and alert. Still in the fight. 

 

 Dorothy's breath hitched clear from her chest. Both frozen in each other's precedence. He was massive. All strength and bulk. Seemingly unharmed by the animal other than a few scratches. She could not think and took a step back, timid. Adrenaline still running through both of them into a slow descent. He seemed enambered, unsure what to say so he glanced at the dead beast then back to her. Tight lipped like herself, hardly for the same reason. Other men would have glorified in the kill. This man seemed almost ashamed.

 

 " _You're hurt_." She read from his lips then reached up to the side of her head. A small cut leaked little streams of blood down her neck. She shook her head, careful not to look away. His face changed to something sterner. "  _Why didn’t you run?"_

Dorothy pinched her brows together. Eyes wide. She shook her head again. Confused like a bird mistaking a corpse for food.

 

 He walked forward slowly, careful not to scare her. "I called for you across the river. I said  _very_ loudly that it was dangerous in the area. You completely ignored it, even went deeper into the river. I was close enough and the waters could not have been that loud, to be sure. I know I'm foreign to you but just the same, ma'am. You could have heeded my warning and went the other way.”

 

 With every step he took, she mirrored it backwards. He turned and flicked the blood drenched on his arms into the grass. He looked perplexed, annoyed even as he looked at the dead animal that nearly killed him. She was sure he was grumbling about it further. Not that she was able to know for sure.

 

  She opened her mouth, snapping it shut before the thought progressed. She hadn't spoken in at least seventeen months. Tried would be a better way of putting it. Oliver said she looked and sounded like a wounded deer. She hadn’t tried again since. It was unfair that she still fell into the motion of speaking. Standing there nodding was all she could do, unable to thank this strange man. 

 

  The atmosphere shifted when he turned back to her. He stopped suddenly, gathering his composure no matter how calm he already was. “What are you doing out here?” 

 

 The way his expression pinched, he might’ve already ask the question when he faced away. She finally let go of her call. Letting it thud on her sternum and felt his eyes on them before watching her hands fly up. She extended her index finger, point directly to her chest. Her lips parting. 

 

_I’m-_

 

She poked her chest in small, hummingbird beats to emphasize her meaning. Her lips forming the words without sound. He remained still. Watching her intently.

 

_Me. I’m-_

 

 Her opposite hand closed into a fist, resting onto her chest and then formed a small circle several times. 

 

-  _sorry._

 

 The man had his head slightly cocked to the side, then nodded. Expression relaxing into a guilty realization. “I see.” He sighed eventually, she nodded as well. “I see, so you can’t-”

 

 She immediately pointed to her ear, the spot right below the cut that still bled profusely. It dawned on him after a few moments. 

   “Didn’t know.” He said, one hand resting on his hip while the other rubbed the back of his neck. “My apologies, ma’am.”

 

 Dorothy’s mouth slightly pulled upwards. A successful interaction completed. Another person understanding her despite those in her family whom disagreed. She shifted her weight, wringing her hands together before gasping and pointing to his arm. Twice she did this, with the utterance of an alarming sound when he wasn’t sure what she was addressing. The man’s eyes flew briefly towards her source of distress. Claw marks ran diagonally across his shoulder and down to his wrist. Ranging from small cuts to deep gashes. The ones on his wrists he imagined worried her. He shrugged, feeling uncomfortable under her ridgid dissection. He cleared his throat. 

 

 “It’s nothing. Not life threatening.” He sounded definitely unsure, he coughed again. “Are you lost?”

 

 She shook her head again. Not responsive to much else and moved her gaze lower to the dead beast behind him. Dorothy took in a tight breath, jabbed a finger towards him then extended her first two fingers on each hand and stack them on top of each other twice. 

 

 “Do you need help with..” he gestured to her own wound, she shook her head. She tried to the shape of her words too. Just as fruitless. His full lips folded together, brow furrowed. “I don’t understand, I’m sorry.”

 

 She took a deep breath and stepped forward. Of course he wouldn’t, why would he? Dorothy took another approach. With nothing to write with, it would surely be a challenge. She laid a palm flat against her chest and looked around her quickly. She bent down and grabbed the sharpest looking rocks she could find on short notice. There was a large boulder that came up to his thighs and was smooth looking enough to see words. 

 

 The man looked more than confused and staggered back a few steps as she fell to her knees. Too caught off guard to ask what she was doing. She made sure he was watching before she struck stone together. The dark headed man leaned forward, hands on his knees.

 

  _D - O - R - O - T -H -Y_

 

She patted the flat of her chest once more and captured his eyes. Out of breath from how hard she had to scratch the letters to make it eligible. 

 

 Against his better and much more serious judgment, he actually smiled. “Dorothy.” 

 

 She grinned while watching him make the word out, all of her teeth perfectly lined up in a happy little row. Dorothy offered him the rock and slapped on the stone with her name. He reached out on instinct but hesitated to take the small token. Gambling on whether or not it was safe to do so. He eyed her a moment, wary of the intent. She looked sure of herself, even proud that she made it this far. Her giant, doll-like eyes persuading him that it was safe to give a little more of himself. The tiniest fraction of her lip pulled under her teeth, and rose the rock between her boney fingers. It didn’t take long for him to grab it. Tips of his fingers barely brushing her knuckle. He glanced at her sideways then cracked another smile, reaching past her and scraped the two stones into the first letter.

 

 Dorothy’s hands rubbed together in excitement and waited. 

 

_C - H -_

 

He felt self conscious after the messy first two letters and looked to her. She appeared transfixed. Nodding along as he wrote. 

 

  _A -_

 

This one he slipped slightly, eliciting a breathy laugh from the small young woman. He chuckled, starting his chicken-scratch again with a stronger stance. She liked his smile. 

 

 Before the next letter was written, the man's head lifted up to the sound of horse's hooves not far off. Dorothy looked in the same direction, pensive and confused. Flashes of hats and coats with green ribbon around them. Dorothy thought nothing of it at first, looking back down to the letters for him to continue. Then the facts settled. Her head shot up, dizzy from the speed. She pinched her lids close together to make reality of what she was seeing. 

 

  _Green colors. Guns._

 

 She made an awful sound, one of surprise and horror. Dorothy scrambled to her bare feet, falling on her behind in the process. The man jumped too, more solid and ready. Startled by her painful outburst. 

 

 "What is it?" She saw him say. 

 

 Dorothy breathed deeply, shaken. Turning her face back and forth between the stranger and the path to her house. Her face contorted in pain.

 

  His serious glare returned and he took a few steps forward. She sensed him following and turned around, suddenly closer than her sister would have thought decent.  "Are you in trouble?" 

 

 She immediately extended her arms out. Palms open and shaking in motion to him. 

 

  _Stay._ She mouthed pointing to the ground.  _Stay, please._

 

 Before he could press her or offer assistance further, she sprinted up the short hill. His legs moved a few steps then stopped. Watching her fly up the pathway and disappear behind the shrubbery and trees. He glared in the opposite direction the  _green colors_ rode. Colm's cronies. Just as obnoxious as always, he grimaced.  There shouldn't have been a biting feeling in his gut when he looked down at her name next to the beginnings of his. Even the rotting animal corpse seemed less staunch. Now remained an aroma of rose water and figs. 

 

 He shook out his hand, skimming over the fresh cuts and gashes on his arms. As he turned, his boot clicked against something solid. A muddy pair of women's boots lay toppled over before him. Sitting like birds on a rooftop. On instinct, he reached down to pick them up.

 

 " _Charles!_ "

 

  Charles Smith blinked, extracted back. A hand on the gun at his hip. Eyes relaxing the moment his companion, he sighed. 

 

 The much smaller man breathed heavy, hands on his knees. He saw the animal, then heaved over unfazed. Panting like a pointer hound begging for a drink. He was soaked all the up passed his stomach. The river clearly proving to be too much for him. " _You_ … _bastard-_ " He said in between breaths, leaning up, hands on his spine. Grateful lungs taking in heaves of air.   

 "How on fucking  _earth,_ did you get across the river so fast? I kept getting caught up in the current!" 

 

 The much smaller, lighter skinned man had every reason to complain even more but he stopped. Suddenly seeing the dead animal carcass, then connected Charles' wounds to the mountain cat's bloody claws. 

 

 "Eh, uh,  _amigo_." He took a cautious step forward, his palms raised to his companion's shoulder. "You don't look so good." 

 

 Charles hummed, walking passed him with a short huff. 

 

 "Hey, I'm just saying, man!" Javier chuckled, unamused by the one sided nervous laughter. "I just didn't think...you know, charging head first was your style?"

 

 "It's not." Charles grunted, response short and unheeding.

 

 " Could've let me in on it, eh?" The other man chuckled, leaning one hand on a tree for support, still breathing heavy. 

 

    Javier crunched his brow together, looking at the dead cat's face as Charles leaned over and re-brandished his hunting knife. He realized his companion was waiting for elaboration.

 

 "He was getting away." Charles said simply, then drew his knife inside the animal with professional precision. Not feeling up to any sort of conversation anymore. 

 

   Javier scoffed, shaking his head then offered a hand. Charles refused and inserted the sharpest part of the knife to begin parting the hide from flesh. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Side note to my dear lovely readers: I very much appreciate all of who stuck this long with me. Life has been rough as of late and this seems to be a great source of stree relief for me!

**Author's Note:**

> Please pass around the story if you enjoy, or comment and kudos! ❤❤


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